It never ceases to amaze me just how goofy this country is becoming.
Direct from the you-have-got-to-be-freaking-kidding-me file comes the story of an elementary school in eastern Canada.
In the interest of safety, children are no longer allowed to bring soccer balls to school. Why, because a parent got hit in the head and suffered a ‘concussion.’ Really? From a soccer ball?
Welcome to the land of the wimps. Perhaps the ‘victim’ was mistaking a head ache for a concussion.
How hard can an elementary school student kick the ball anyway? I doubt hard enough to cause any real damage.
But the ever brilliant school leaders took immediate action and banned all soccer balls from the school field. They also banned footballs, volleyballs and even tennis balls due to the safety risk they posed to the students. What kind of a safety risk does a tennis ball present? If someone throws it at you as hard as they can, you might end up with a small, round red mark. I am speaking from experience here actually because that is one of the games we used to play in elementary school
Students are allowed to bring sponge, or other soft balls to play with. Have you ever tried to play soccer with a sponge? No you have not. No one has, because it is a stupid idea.
Kids are full of energy and they want to play, and if a soccer ball gets them outside and moving, then I say bring it on.
It is just another example of over-the-top safety fear mongers overreacting to a likely minor incident.
I am sure many of the people reading this remember the good ol’ days where we could actually play during lunch break. Why on occasion we would even – gasp – rough house with each other.
We would wrestle each other on the grass. We would play tackle football without any equipment. Did people get bumps and bruises? You bet they did, but it was all part of being a kid.
We used to climb trees too, and anyone who has climbed enough trees knows that eventually you will fall out of the tree. And when that inevitably did happen, did the school officials run out and cut down every tree on the playground? Of course not. They made sure the student did not suffer and serious injury and sent them on their way. At most, they would have announced we were no longer allowed to climb the trees (which we typically ignored of course).
It was a rare day when I did not have some sort of abrasion, cut or bruise. Likewise for all of my friends and guess what - we all survived our childhood. Every single one of us managed to reach adulthood despite a youth filled with such hazardous activities as soccer.
Do serious accidents happen? On occasion yes, and it is tragic when they do, but come on folks banning soccer balls and tennis balls – that seems a little much. Accidents can happen pretty much anywhere at anytime.
What are they going to do next? Cover the entire school yard with foam and give all the children full body armor to wear every single moment of the day.
In Grade 7 a friend of mine (yes, I actually had friends) walked into the edge of a door that was opening. It was a fluke accident and a matter of perfect timing of him walking and the door opening. It could happen to anyone at any time. Did they take out all the doors? Of course not. They just made sure he was OK and life went on.
Oh, by the way, he also survived the horrendously dangerous childhood of contact sports and opening doors.
I am all for keeping kids safe, but let’s keep it within the realm of sanity. Several of the parents are upset over the ball ban, as well they should be, and also feel kids should be allowed to be kids and play, even if it does mean the occasional minor injury.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Junior learns a lesson, I have fun teaching him one
I knew the phone call was coming.
And when it did, the panic in his voice was loud and clear.
Mission accomplished.
The mission involved my 15-year-old son, who recently purchased a shiny new BMX bike – a rather expensive BMX bike.
He had a summer job and I agreed to pay for a portion of the bike and he was thrilled to get it. He had his eye set on a certain one – not the one on sale of course, that would be too easy – but he was determined and knew the bike he wanted.
Having known Junior for so long, I knew that once he locked in on something, that was it, there was no changing his mind.
OK, it was his money (mostly) so he grabbed the 2012 model and was happier than cat teasing a blind dog.
He posted the good news, he told his friends and he showed off the fancy two-wheeled wonder. He also did something I did not approve of and warned him against several times – he would leave the bike in front of the garage, unlocked.
“That’s not smart. Someone will spot it and all they have to do is walk 30 feet from the sidewalk and they got themselves a brand new bike.”
To which he gave the response most teenagers prefer to give: a sigh, a brief look of ‘you worry too much pops’ followed by, “I know, I know.”
This went on for a while until opportunity knocked and I improvised a plan. Operation Scare the Crap out of Junior was a moment of inspiration as I came home from work, walked up the driveway and saw his bike sitting next to the garbage cans behind our travel trailer.
At first, I was simply going to go into the house and once again remind him to lock up his bike, but it was a conversation we had many times with little effect, so I thought a new plan of attack might be in order.
Actions speak louder than words so I put down my lunch kit, grabbed his bike and put it in the backyard.
I then went about my evening rituals as if nothing was amiss. I had a nice supper, chatted with the Missus for a while before heading out to my martial arts class.
The Missus was also going out and I asked Junior what he was planning on doing that evening.
“Uh, I dunno, probably go for a bike ride.”
“You do that, Skippy,” was my parting comment. When I got to my martial arts class I thought it best if I bring my phone into the training area – something I never do.
But, circumstances were a little different this time and besides I was really looking forward to his panicked phone call.
And sure enough, 45 minutes into the class the phone summoned me. Everyone wanted me to put it on speaker so they could enjoy the conversation as well, but I opted to take this call in private.
“Dad, did you put my bike in the garage?” was the first thing a very stressed teen asked.
“No, I didn’t. Why would I put your bike in the garage?” was my honest answer as I had put the bike in the backyard.
“But…I…I…thought it was in there.” The panic was reaching a crescendo of epic proportions.
I told Junior I saw his bike sitting in the driveway when I got home – unlocked – but I did not put it in the garage.
I could feel the panic reach an all-time high through the phone and felt it was time to let Junior off the hook and tell him where the bike was.
The relief was noticeable. There was a double blessing in the bike situation: first, Junior learned how crappy it would be if someone stole his bike and he should take better care of it. Secondly, I really enjoyed teaching him that lesson.
Since then, his bike has been locked up tighter than Fort Knox.
Like I said, mission accomplished.
And when it did, the panic in his voice was loud and clear.
Mission accomplished.
The mission involved my 15-year-old son, who recently purchased a shiny new BMX bike – a rather expensive BMX bike.
He had a summer job and I agreed to pay for a portion of the bike and he was thrilled to get it. He had his eye set on a certain one – not the one on sale of course, that would be too easy – but he was determined and knew the bike he wanted.
Having known Junior for so long, I knew that once he locked in on something, that was it, there was no changing his mind.
OK, it was his money (mostly) so he grabbed the 2012 model and was happier than cat teasing a blind dog.
He posted the good news, he told his friends and he showed off the fancy two-wheeled wonder. He also did something I did not approve of and warned him against several times – he would leave the bike in front of the garage, unlocked.
“That’s not smart. Someone will spot it and all they have to do is walk 30 feet from the sidewalk and they got themselves a brand new bike.”
To which he gave the response most teenagers prefer to give: a sigh, a brief look of ‘you worry too much pops’ followed by, “I know, I know.”
This went on for a while until opportunity knocked and I improvised a plan. Operation Scare the Crap out of Junior was a moment of inspiration as I came home from work, walked up the driveway and saw his bike sitting next to the garbage cans behind our travel trailer.
At first, I was simply going to go into the house and once again remind him to lock up his bike, but it was a conversation we had many times with little effect, so I thought a new plan of attack might be in order.
Actions speak louder than words so I put down my lunch kit, grabbed his bike and put it in the backyard.
I then went about my evening rituals as if nothing was amiss. I had a nice supper, chatted with the Missus for a while before heading out to my martial arts class.
The Missus was also going out and I asked Junior what he was planning on doing that evening.
“Uh, I dunno, probably go for a bike ride.”
“You do that, Skippy,” was my parting comment. When I got to my martial arts class I thought it best if I bring my phone into the training area – something I never do.
But, circumstances were a little different this time and besides I was really looking forward to his panicked phone call.
And sure enough, 45 minutes into the class the phone summoned me. Everyone wanted me to put it on speaker so they could enjoy the conversation as well, but I opted to take this call in private.
“Dad, did you put my bike in the garage?” was the first thing a very stressed teen asked.
“No, I didn’t. Why would I put your bike in the garage?” was my honest answer as I had put the bike in the backyard.
“But…I…I…thought it was in there.” The panic was reaching a crescendo of epic proportions.
I told Junior I saw his bike sitting in the driveway when I got home – unlocked – but I did not put it in the garage.
I could feel the panic reach an all-time high through the phone and felt it was time to let Junior off the hook and tell him where the bike was.
The relief was noticeable. There was a double blessing in the bike situation: first, Junior learned how crappy it would be if someone stole his bike and he should take better care of it. Secondly, I really enjoyed teaching him that lesson.
Since then, his bike has been locked up tighter than Fort Knox.
Like I said, mission accomplished.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Hey dad, can i have a ride?
As a child, I can remember asking my parents to give me a ride here, or give me a ride there.
The top destination was a small corner store a couple of miles from the family homestead. We lived out in the sticks on a couple of acres and there were huge gardens to tend to and numerous fruit trees to care for, so ma and pa would always say they were too busy.
Even when they weren’t busy they still would not give us a ride.
“Why when I was your age I used to walk 15 miles just to snatch an apple from a tree and then 17 miles back home again. We didn’t have corner stores when I was a kid, or a car. In fact, the wheel had not even been invented yet so we had to walk - everywhere.”
At that point we gave up and walked to the store, grumbling all the way about how when I am a grown up and have kids ‘I am going to give them a ride whenever they want one. I’m not going to make my poor children trudge along the side of the road like I have to. Maybe I will get grabbed by a grizzly bear or a Sasquatch - that would teach them. They sure would have wished they had given me a ride then.’
Of course, there was no grizzly or mysterious mountain ape waiting to ambush us as we went to get a pop and a bag of chips.
Now, many years later, I am the father of children and do I jump up and give them a ride to wherever they want to go?
Nope.
“Why when I was your age I had to walk 15 miles to the corner store and then 17 miles back, and I liked it. It was good exercise and we never complained and we spent all of our spare time reading our bibles and helping thy neighbour. We also never got in to trouble and were very respectful to authority figures.”
The kids would grumble and complain, but they would manage to walk the 10 blocks to the store and return again.
If the distance was too far, I would give them a ride (as my parents did for me) but for those short trips, you’re on your own kid.
My wife on the other hand does thing a little differently. She will give them a ride pretty much every single time.
“Oh, what’s that son? You need to get the newspaper at the end of the driveway? Hang on a second, I’ll give you a ride.”
Her mom is the same way, if not even worse.
“Oh you need to go somewhere? Why don’t you wait here and I will drive the van up to the front steps so you don’t have to walk as far to get into the vehicle.”
With service like that, you can see why it did not take long before I was the last person they asked for a ride.
Instead of burning more fossil fuels, I would refer them to the nice mountainbike they have sitting in the garage, the public transit system or even the good, old-fashioned Shoe Leather Express. All three of those systems took me a long way in my youth (grumbling all the way, mind you) and all three have the same ability to transport the people of today.
“But I don’t want to walk, my bike is all the way in garage and the city bus takes too long.”
“Hmmm, you present an interesting case child, one I will have to think about. Having mulled it over, the only answer I can come up with is boo-hoo to you too.”
I may be breaking a vow I made when I was a child, but back then I also swore allegiance to the Secret Fraternity of Booger Flickers so you can’t hold me to everything.
The top destination was a small corner store a couple of miles from the family homestead. We lived out in the sticks on a couple of acres and there were huge gardens to tend to and numerous fruit trees to care for, so ma and pa would always say they were too busy.
Even when they weren’t busy they still would not give us a ride.
“Why when I was your age I used to walk 15 miles just to snatch an apple from a tree and then 17 miles back home again. We didn’t have corner stores when I was a kid, or a car. In fact, the wheel had not even been invented yet so we had to walk - everywhere.”
At that point we gave up and walked to the store, grumbling all the way about how when I am a grown up and have kids ‘I am going to give them a ride whenever they want one. I’m not going to make my poor children trudge along the side of the road like I have to. Maybe I will get grabbed by a grizzly bear or a Sasquatch - that would teach them. They sure would have wished they had given me a ride then.’
Of course, there was no grizzly or mysterious mountain ape waiting to ambush us as we went to get a pop and a bag of chips.
Now, many years later, I am the father of children and do I jump up and give them a ride to wherever they want to go?
Nope.
“Why when I was your age I had to walk 15 miles to the corner store and then 17 miles back, and I liked it. It was good exercise and we never complained and we spent all of our spare time reading our bibles and helping thy neighbour. We also never got in to trouble and were very respectful to authority figures.”
The kids would grumble and complain, but they would manage to walk the 10 blocks to the store and return again.
If the distance was too far, I would give them a ride (as my parents did for me) but for those short trips, you’re on your own kid.
My wife on the other hand does thing a little differently. She will give them a ride pretty much every single time.
“Oh, what’s that son? You need to get the newspaper at the end of the driveway? Hang on a second, I’ll give you a ride.”
Her mom is the same way, if not even worse.
“Oh you need to go somewhere? Why don’t you wait here and I will drive the van up to the front steps so you don’t have to walk as far to get into the vehicle.”
With service like that, you can see why it did not take long before I was the last person they asked for a ride.
Instead of burning more fossil fuels, I would refer them to the nice mountainbike they have sitting in the garage, the public transit system or even the good, old-fashioned Shoe Leather Express. All three of those systems took me a long way in my youth (grumbling all the way, mind you) and all three have the same ability to transport the people of today.
“But I don’t want to walk, my bike is all the way in garage and the city bus takes too long.”
“Hmmm, you present an interesting case child, one I will have to think about. Having mulled it over, the only answer I can come up with is boo-hoo to you too.”
I may be breaking a vow I made when I was a child, but back then I also swore allegiance to the Secret Fraternity of Booger Flickers so you can’t hold me to everything.
Squished frog makes for good clean fun
I ended up spending the rest of the school year looking over my shoulder, jumping at every movement I caught out of the corner of my eye and peering around every corner before venturing forward.
Why you ask - because of a frog. No I did not have a deep-seated frog-aphobia, but rather a case of revenge-aphobia.
It started during an elementary school camping trip to an area lake. Nothing scary about that, right? Well, had me and a buddy not been full of boyish energy, a situation would not have arisen that resulted in me developing a justified case of paranoia.
The incident involved a pick-up truck, a hard-luck frog, an idea that seemed like a good one at the time and my friend.
Now, before I get into the gory details of the incident, I must provide some context into why I did what I did. My friend, Jeff, and I used to play a game where we were always trying to maim each other in some way - to cause the other discomfort, embarrassment or good, old-fashioned pain as a way of interacting throughout the school day.
It’s no wonder I have a nervous twitch.
‘The Incident’ was merely an extension of our little game, in which it was always better to give than receive.
The day began like normal – everyone stumbled out of their tents, had breakfast, did a little class study thing before heading to the beach for an afternoon of higher education in the area of goofing around.
It took about 10 minutes to walk from our campsite to the beach, and it was along this winding road ‘The Incident’ took place.
It began with a rather large frog hopping across the blacktop, only to be run over by a passing Ford.
“Ewww, that is disgusting,” was the general consensus because Kermit’s hapless cousin was only half run over. The truck ran over the back half of the frog, squeezing some innards out of the front of the frog. Enough said about that.
The frog was as dead as it was ever going to be and everyone gave it a wide birth. Well, almost everyone. I saw it as an excellent opportunity to continue the game with my good buddy.
In a moment of inspiration, I grabbed the dead critter by one of its legs and threw it Frisbee style at Jeff. I never actually expected to hit him, let alone smack him square in the face, but the projectile of yuck sailed straight and true and hit him right in the mush with a kind of splatting sound.
The world around me stopped. Everyone stared at Jeff as the frog slid off his face and landed on the ground. Then they looked at me, then the looked back at Jeff, then they looked at me again.
I was trying very hard not to laugh because while I was aiming for his face, I never thought in a million years I would actually hit the target. In fact, I never expected to hit him at all.
But it was too late now, the die had been cast, or in this case the squished frog had been thrown.
Jeff looked down at the frog, then looked up at me and I knew it was time to vacate the area.
And vacate I did, with Jeff hot on my heals. I was in really good shape back then so I knew I had the wheels to keep running until Jeff calmed down and gave up the chase.
Problem was, Jeff was also in good shape and had little desire to let me go and we ran for miles around that campground. I managed to elude Jeff on the initial chase, but we had two more days of camping and then a couple months of school to survive. And I knew Jeff would be after me the entire time until revenge was achieved.
Jeff did get his revenge and it involved a very rotten salmon at the side of a spawning creek, a well-timed hook of my left foot, me falling to the ground and my left arm embedding in the fish with a disgusting splat.
Satisfied with his revenge, I could now live the rest of the school year in peace. Well, sort of, because now I had to seek revenge for his revenge, then he would seek revenge, then I would seek revenge, then…
Why you ask - because of a frog. No I did not have a deep-seated frog-aphobia, but rather a case of revenge-aphobia.
It started during an elementary school camping trip to an area lake. Nothing scary about that, right? Well, had me and a buddy not been full of boyish energy, a situation would not have arisen that resulted in me developing a justified case of paranoia.
The incident involved a pick-up truck, a hard-luck frog, an idea that seemed like a good one at the time and my friend.
Now, before I get into the gory details of the incident, I must provide some context into why I did what I did. My friend, Jeff, and I used to play a game where we were always trying to maim each other in some way - to cause the other discomfort, embarrassment or good, old-fashioned pain as a way of interacting throughout the school day.
It’s no wonder I have a nervous twitch.
‘The Incident’ was merely an extension of our little game, in which it was always better to give than receive.
The day began like normal – everyone stumbled out of their tents, had breakfast, did a little class study thing before heading to the beach for an afternoon of higher education in the area of goofing around.
It took about 10 minutes to walk from our campsite to the beach, and it was along this winding road ‘The Incident’ took place.
It began with a rather large frog hopping across the blacktop, only to be run over by a passing Ford.
“Ewww, that is disgusting,” was the general consensus because Kermit’s hapless cousin was only half run over. The truck ran over the back half of the frog, squeezing some innards out of the front of the frog. Enough said about that.
The frog was as dead as it was ever going to be and everyone gave it a wide birth. Well, almost everyone. I saw it as an excellent opportunity to continue the game with my good buddy.
In a moment of inspiration, I grabbed the dead critter by one of its legs and threw it Frisbee style at Jeff. I never actually expected to hit him, let alone smack him square in the face, but the projectile of yuck sailed straight and true and hit him right in the mush with a kind of splatting sound.
The world around me stopped. Everyone stared at Jeff as the frog slid off his face and landed on the ground. Then they looked at me, then the looked back at Jeff, then they looked at me again.
I was trying very hard not to laugh because while I was aiming for his face, I never thought in a million years I would actually hit the target. In fact, I never expected to hit him at all.
But it was too late now, the die had been cast, or in this case the squished frog had been thrown.
Jeff looked down at the frog, then looked up at me and I knew it was time to vacate the area.
And vacate I did, with Jeff hot on my heals. I was in really good shape back then so I knew I had the wheels to keep running until Jeff calmed down and gave up the chase.
Problem was, Jeff was also in good shape and had little desire to let me go and we ran for miles around that campground. I managed to elude Jeff on the initial chase, but we had two more days of camping and then a couple months of school to survive. And I knew Jeff would be after me the entire time until revenge was achieved.
Jeff did get his revenge and it involved a very rotten salmon at the side of a spawning creek, a well-timed hook of my left foot, me falling to the ground and my left arm embedding in the fish with a disgusting splat.
Satisfied with his revenge, I could now live the rest of the school year in peace. Well, sort of, because now I had to seek revenge for his revenge, then he would seek revenge, then I would seek revenge, then…
Monday, October 31, 2011
I know I am old, biut how do I act
I need a little help.
No, I am not talking about help with my mental capacity, although some could argue I need more than just a little help in that area, and they are probably right.
The help I need is when it comes to getting old.
The actual getting old part I pretty much got figured out: just keep waking up each morning and you will get older, I guarantee it.
The help I need is how am I supposed to behave for a gentleman of my age?
I am in the latter half of the F-years, a.k.a. the 40s. They say life begins at 40 and I say ‘they’ are all people who are at least 40.
There’s no way a 25 year old would say that. I know I wouldn’t have when I was a 20 something.
‘They’ also say 50 is the new 40.
A guy I know has them all beat. He is 48, but still acts 18. Mind you, he is an exception to the rule. He is also kind of a bozo, but that is for a different column.
I started thinking about this when I turned 30 and wondered just how was a 30 year old supposed to behave?
Then it was how does a 40 year old behave?
Soon I will wonder how I am supposed to act when I roll to the big half-a-century mark.
There is potential for me to be a grandpa by then. How is a grandpa supposed to act? Hell, I remember my grandpa as being old? Does that mean I am old? If so, how am I supposed to act?
I knew how a teenager was supposed to act – like an idiot with no concern for the consequences of his actions.
“Look, we’re teenagers, if we don’t do stupid things now, when will we?”
I actually said that on many occasions and most of my friends were sold on the idea and jumped right into whatever plan we were concocting at the moment.
That is the beauty of youth - you are too young to know better, but old enough to do whatever it is you probably shouldn’t be doing.
“C’mon, speed limits are for wimps. What are you a nun or something?”
“Yeah, my knee hurts a little bit, but it will be fine tomorrow. Let’s keep playing.”
“Sure I’ll have another beer. The last 15 barely affected me.”
Youth is wasted on the young. But like a fine wine, people mature with age.
In my 20s I knew it was time to knuckle down and get on with some sort of respectable life. Career, marriage, kids, a mortgage – all happened when I was in my 20s.
No more taking off on a road trip with 30 minutes notice. No more staying up until seven in the morning. Well, not having fun anyway. In my late 20s, an ‘all nighter’ meant sitting up with a sick kid.
Since the ‘settling down’ process began I drink socially and only a few times a year, I no longer smoke – starting in the first place is my only real regret from the stupidity of youth – and I do the speed limit because the speeding fine is no longer worth the extra few minutes I would save by blasting down the road at warp factor five.
Basically, I have turned into the old guy we all used to laugh at in our youth.
So is that it? Have I arrived at some sort of maturity stasis where this is as mature as I will ever be?
I guess we can arrive at a certain point of maturity and never really evolve beyond that – like my 48-year-old friend did.
He reached 18 and decided that was it for him. Gee, I wonder why he is now divorced, massively in debt and still thinks excessive drinking is still something to brag about.
I am glad to have evolved beyond the immature antics of a teen, but still do not feel old enough to act like an old guy.
Oh well, with age comes wisdom and I am sure I will figure it out – eventually.
No, I am not talking about help with my mental capacity, although some could argue I need more than just a little help in that area, and they are probably right.
The help I need is when it comes to getting old.
The actual getting old part I pretty much got figured out: just keep waking up each morning and you will get older, I guarantee it.
The help I need is how am I supposed to behave for a gentleman of my age?
I am in the latter half of the F-years, a.k.a. the 40s. They say life begins at 40 and I say ‘they’ are all people who are at least 40.
There’s no way a 25 year old would say that. I know I wouldn’t have when I was a 20 something.
‘They’ also say 50 is the new 40.
A guy I know has them all beat. He is 48, but still acts 18. Mind you, he is an exception to the rule. He is also kind of a bozo, but that is for a different column.
I started thinking about this when I turned 30 and wondered just how was a 30 year old supposed to behave?
Then it was how does a 40 year old behave?
Soon I will wonder how I am supposed to act when I roll to the big half-a-century mark.
There is potential for me to be a grandpa by then. How is a grandpa supposed to act? Hell, I remember my grandpa as being old? Does that mean I am old? If so, how am I supposed to act?
I knew how a teenager was supposed to act – like an idiot with no concern for the consequences of his actions.
“Look, we’re teenagers, if we don’t do stupid things now, when will we?”
I actually said that on many occasions and most of my friends were sold on the idea and jumped right into whatever plan we were concocting at the moment.
That is the beauty of youth - you are too young to know better, but old enough to do whatever it is you probably shouldn’t be doing.
“C’mon, speed limits are for wimps. What are you a nun or something?”
“Yeah, my knee hurts a little bit, but it will be fine tomorrow. Let’s keep playing.”
“Sure I’ll have another beer. The last 15 barely affected me.”
Youth is wasted on the young. But like a fine wine, people mature with age.
In my 20s I knew it was time to knuckle down and get on with some sort of respectable life. Career, marriage, kids, a mortgage – all happened when I was in my 20s.
No more taking off on a road trip with 30 minutes notice. No more staying up until seven in the morning. Well, not having fun anyway. In my late 20s, an ‘all nighter’ meant sitting up with a sick kid.
Since the ‘settling down’ process began I drink socially and only a few times a year, I no longer smoke – starting in the first place is my only real regret from the stupidity of youth – and I do the speed limit because the speeding fine is no longer worth the extra few minutes I would save by blasting down the road at warp factor five.
Basically, I have turned into the old guy we all used to laugh at in our youth.
So is that it? Have I arrived at some sort of maturity stasis where this is as mature as I will ever be?
I guess we can arrive at a certain point of maturity and never really evolve beyond that – like my 48-year-old friend did.
He reached 18 and decided that was it for him. Gee, I wonder why he is now divorced, massively in debt and still thinks excessive drinking is still something to brag about.
I am glad to have evolved beyond the immature antics of a teen, but still do not feel old enough to act like an old guy.
Oh well, with age comes wisdom and I am sure I will figure it out – eventually.
Sorry folks, but cats eat meat
I recently read where a vegan is promoting the no-meat lifestyle for cats. In fact, this guy has not fed his cat any meat-type product in months.
Do you know what they call a cat that is not allowed to eat any sort of meat product? A hungry cat, that’s what.
Cats have been roaming the earth for centuries and I doubt even once did a feline prefer a salad over an entrée of fresh mouse.
This has touched off a heated discussion not seen since the great dogs-should-be-allowed-to-hump-your-leg-as-a-form-of-personal-expression debate of 1972.
Both sides of the meatless cat diet are making their case, but I have to side with the ones who seem to have an IQ greater than a bowl of yogurt.
Such as the veterinarian who is quoted as saying cats need to eat meat.
To this I say - “No duh.”
Cats are carnivores and just because a flower eater wants his cat to eat soy products, leafs and berries does not mean cats were meant to eat soy products, leafs and berries.
Those sharp, pointy teeth are there for a reason. So are the claws. They were not designed to take down a carrot or head of lettuce, but to sink into mice, birds, small rodents and the household dog should it try that humping thing.
Of course PETA has gotten involved and sided with the plant eater and said cats can live a full and healthy life by eating “an all-vegetable diet with artificial supplements mimicking the essential amino acids and minerals.”
If cats could talk, odds are this one would say, “Are you freaking kidding me?! I’m a cat, and cats eat meaty things. In fact, I am capable of catching and eating meaty things all by myself. Just let me outside and I will take care of my own dinner.”
The cat owner said he has been feeding his cat non-meat products for a year and the cat is just fine (aside from a growing resentment of the kind of owner it has anyway).
“To force cats to eat a vegetarian diet is both unethical and irresponsible," Dr. Michael W. Fox, veterinarian and author, was quoted as saying. "To impose some vegetarian or vegan ideology on one's cat is to go against the nature of cats and their right to be fed a biologically-appropriate diet."
Yeah, you tell them doc. If God wanted cats to eat nothing but veggies, he would have made them tiny little cows (that ignore you when you call their name.)
The Humane Society of the United States is also against feeding your feline nothing but veggies, and I am pretty sure those folk know what they are talking about.
I must pause for a moment and praise the passionate – if not occasionally misguided - people at PETA for their tireless work in making conditions more humane for animals.
I have seen those ‘secret’ videos of how some animals destined for the barbecue are treated and it truly is sickening.
The way those animals are kept and raised must be changed, but let’s leave the cats alone, OK.
Like it or not, say what you want, cats are carnivores. It is that simple.
Hey, I don’t make the rules of nature. I just make fun of people who try to change the rules of nature.
If you make a conscious decision not to eat meat, go ahead, scrum down on sprouts and bark mulch to your heart’s content. I must admit I respect the determination shown by flower eaters to abstain from meat. A vegan lifestyle is not something I could do. I tried once, but then supper was ready so I went back on the meat wagon.
In the end, to eat meat or not to eat meat is a personal choice, but for a cat eating meat is in their nature.
Now if you will excuse me, I am going to share some chicken-fried steak with the family feline.
Do you know what they call a cat that is not allowed to eat any sort of meat product? A hungry cat, that’s what.
Cats have been roaming the earth for centuries and I doubt even once did a feline prefer a salad over an entrée of fresh mouse.
This has touched off a heated discussion not seen since the great dogs-should-be-allowed-to-hump-your-leg-as-a-form-of-personal-expression debate of 1972.
Both sides of the meatless cat diet are making their case, but I have to side with the ones who seem to have an IQ greater than a bowl of yogurt.
Such as the veterinarian who is quoted as saying cats need to eat meat.
To this I say - “No duh.”
Cats are carnivores and just because a flower eater wants his cat to eat soy products, leafs and berries does not mean cats were meant to eat soy products, leafs and berries.
Those sharp, pointy teeth are there for a reason. So are the claws. They were not designed to take down a carrot or head of lettuce, but to sink into mice, birds, small rodents and the household dog should it try that humping thing.
Of course PETA has gotten involved and sided with the plant eater and said cats can live a full and healthy life by eating “an all-vegetable diet with artificial supplements mimicking the essential amino acids and minerals.”
If cats could talk, odds are this one would say, “Are you freaking kidding me?! I’m a cat, and cats eat meaty things. In fact, I am capable of catching and eating meaty things all by myself. Just let me outside and I will take care of my own dinner.”
The cat owner said he has been feeding his cat non-meat products for a year and the cat is just fine (aside from a growing resentment of the kind of owner it has anyway).
“To force cats to eat a vegetarian diet is both unethical and irresponsible," Dr. Michael W. Fox, veterinarian and author, was quoted as saying. "To impose some vegetarian or vegan ideology on one's cat is to go against the nature of cats and their right to be fed a biologically-appropriate diet."
Yeah, you tell them doc. If God wanted cats to eat nothing but veggies, he would have made them tiny little cows (that ignore you when you call their name.)
The Humane Society of the United States is also against feeding your feline nothing but veggies, and I am pretty sure those folk know what they are talking about.
I must pause for a moment and praise the passionate – if not occasionally misguided - people at PETA for their tireless work in making conditions more humane for animals.
I have seen those ‘secret’ videos of how some animals destined for the barbecue are treated and it truly is sickening.
The way those animals are kept and raised must be changed, but let’s leave the cats alone, OK.
Like it or not, say what you want, cats are carnivores. It is that simple.
Hey, I don’t make the rules of nature. I just make fun of people who try to change the rules of nature.
If you make a conscious decision not to eat meat, go ahead, scrum down on sprouts and bark mulch to your heart’s content. I must admit I respect the determination shown by flower eaters to abstain from meat. A vegan lifestyle is not something I could do. I tried once, but then supper was ready so I went back on the meat wagon.
In the end, to eat meat or not to eat meat is a personal choice, but for a cat eating meat is in their nature.
Now if you will excuse me, I am going to share some chicken-fried steak with the family feline.
Monday, October 3, 2011
What the ick is that stuff???
With all the wonders of modern technology, you would think they could make the stuff that the dentist uses taste a whole lot better.
I do not know what any of the stuff dentists use are called, but it is some nasty gear so from here on out I shall refer to it as goop. That should cover whatever liquid form of oral torment they see fit to squeeze into my mouth.
Scientists can put people into space, create computers that can help perform the most delicate of operations, but they can’t invent dentist goop that does not taste like C3PO just threw up in your mouth.
The entire dentist experience can leave a bad taste in your mouth – literally. The rubber dam has a lovely inner tube taste to it and even the rubber gloves are less than appealing, but on my last visit I was introduced to a goop that could be used as a method of extracting information from terrorists.
Just squirt some of that on their tongue and in exchange for some rinse they will be talking faster than an auctioneer.
I recently had a crown installed and I do not know what was worse: having someone use power tools in my mouth or the taste of that horrid goop that is part of the process.
What is that stuff anyway? Not only is it horrid, but long lasting. It is like a taste tattoo that lasts, and lasts, and lasts…
My latest adventure in the Chair of Doom was actually not too bad as far as a visit to the dentist goes.
But that is also kind of like saying the broken bone didn’t hurt too bad considering it was a broken body part.
They were putting crowns on, which as far as having dental work goes was simple stuff. The hard part was done two weeks earlier and involved lots of freezing, drilling and of course the mandatory foul-tasting equipment.
So this visit was going pretty well until they put what I believe is some sort of glue on the posts that hold the crowns that my dental plan paid good money for.
That has got to be some of the most God awful tasting stuff man has ever devised. I assume they do not make it taste that way on purpose, but have these scientist guys ever actually tasted this stuff?
I doubt it, or it would all taste like bubblegum and beer (bubblegum for the kids, beer for dad.)
I think one of the first things they should have looked at was where the goop is going to be used - in someone’s mouth which is crammed full of these little things called taste buds, the job of which is to taste things.
Taste buds are not exclusionary. God put them there to taste things – the good and the bad - and believe me, this stuff was bad.
So it would make sense any goop a dentists uses does not taste so horrid, right? Apparently not, because some of the stuff they use is downright nasty.
Anyway, I am kicking back in the Chair of Doom as the doc does his dentist stuff and things weren’t too bad.
That is until the goop was introduced the morning adventure of fun and excitement. Never in my life have I wanted the mouth rinse and little suction machine thingy to do their job more than at that moment.
In fact, you could have crammed a garden hose in my face and I would not have minded because at that point I was willing to swim up river with my mouth open to wash out that taste.
I do not know what any of the stuff dentists use are called, but it is some nasty gear so from here on out I shall refer to it as goop. That should cover whatever liquid form of oral torment they see fit to squeeze into my mouth.
Scientists can put people into space, create computers that can help perform the most delicate of operations, but they can’t invent dentist goop that does not taste like C3PO just threw up in your mouth.
The entire dentist experience can leave a bad taste in your mouth – literally. The rubber dam has a lovely inner tube taste to it and even the rubber gloves are less than appealing, but on my last visit I was introduced to a goop that could be used as a method of extracting information from terrorists.
Just squirt some of that on their tongue and in exchange for some rinse they will be talking faster than an auctioneer.
I recently had a crown installed and I do not know what was worse: having someone use power tools in my mouth or the taste of that horrid goop that is part of the process.
What is that stuff anyway? Not only is it horrid, but long lasting. It is like a taste tattoo that lasts, and lasts, and lasts…
My latest adventure in the Chair of Doom was actually not too bad as far as a visit to the dentist goes.
But that is also kind of like saying the broken bone didn’t hurt too bad considering it was a broken body part.
They were putting crowns on, which as far as having dental work goes was simple stuff. The hard part was done two weeks earlier and involved lots of freezing, drilling and of course the mandatory foul-tasting equipment.
So this visit was going pretty well until they put what I believe is some sort of glue on the posts that hold the crowns that my dental plan paid good money for.
That has got to be some of the most God awful tasting stuff man has ever devised. I assume they do not make it taste that way on purpose, but have these scientist guys ever actually tasted this stuff?
I doubt it, or it would all taste like bubblegum and beer (bubblegum for the kids, beer for dad.)
I think one of the first things they should have looked at was where the goop is going to be used - in someone’s mouth which is crammed full of these little things called taste buds, the job of which is to taste things.
Taste buds are not exclusionary. God put them there to taste things – the good and the bad - and believe me, this stuff was bad.
So it would make sense any goop a dentists uses does not taste so horrid, right? Apparently not, because some of the stuff they use is downright nasty.
Anyway, I am kicking back in the Chair of Doom as the doc does his dentist stuff and things weren’t too bad.
That is until the goop was introduced the morning adventure of fun and excitement. Never in my life have I wanted the mouth rinse and little suction machine thingy to do their job more than at that moment.
In fact, you could have crammed a garden hose in my face and I would not have minded because at that point I was willing to swim up river with my mouth open to wash out that taste.
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