Draconian Measures, Dinner and Why I Like Flamingos

BLOGS OF NOTE:

I am not a nice guy.

I am a dickhead. I have learned to live with this fact of life. Accordingly, I have adjusted Blogs of Note with a draconian hand. Now that we have that behind us, let us move on to more important things...

POOPING:

I had a good night tonight. We had a "family dinner." That is probably too white suburban asshole for many of you, but I am a white suburban asshole and I have to say I loved it. A very large part of the dinner hour was re-telling tales of embarrasing fart and poop stories. God I love my family.

Much of the discussion involved where one can and cannot poop. I cannot drop the kids off at the pool in any public forum in which I might be recognized...including by my shoes. If the doors go all the way to the floor and I can be completely anonymous, I am fine. Otherwise, I can hold it like a dromedary in the desert.

My son is apparently the same way. So much so that he related the story of when he was in high school and had to have my wife come pick him up so that he could go home and do his business. No pooping at school.

There were also several stories involving public farts. There are very few joys in life better than ripping one in public, say in an aisle in the grocery store, and then walking away to leave the impact for complete strangers to enjoy. The payoff is when you hear the subsequent visitor comment on your work - "Holy shit, what is that?" That will keep us chuckling for YEARS.

Public flatulence-what a gas!

By the way, we had pork chops tonight...and yes, I couldn't help but wonder...

WHY I LIKE FLAMINGOS

Psychic Dumb Dumb and Drea were curious as to why I like pink flamingos. It is actually somewhat of a long and complicated explanation, but here it is:

A few years ago I lived in a quaint little midwestern town in Iowa called Cedar Rapids. It is a city of about 120,000 people. Cedar Rapids is a quiet little blue collar town dominated by Quaker Oats processing and Rockwell Collins manufacturing. I worked as an attorney at a large national life insurance company.

In that quaint little town there is a chain of pharmacies (similar to Walgreens or Longs Drug) called "Drug Town." I've always been amused by that name, but that's the god's honest truth - Drug Town! Not only do they have a pharmacy in Drug Town, but most of them also have a postal substation.

While on my way home from work late one afternoon, I had the need to mail a couple of items; most likely bills. So, I pulled into the Drug Town that was about two miles from my home and went inside. It was fall and there were pumpkin displays, bales of hay and bound shocks of corn creating a pre-halloween display at the front of the store. I made my way past the garden utensils and Halloween decorations and down the aisle past the hair care products toward the back of the store where the postal substation was located. Of course they put it at the back corner of the store so you had to go all the way through the store past their entire stock of goods to get a fucking stamp. So I did.

I reached the back of the store to find one person in line. I took my place in line, fidgeting impatiently while looking at a display of walking canes and other osteopathic aides located near the substation. While browsing, I noticed a little, hunched-over older lady wearing a long overcoat shuffle into line behind me.

At this time, stamps were thirty-two cents each. I had three envelopes to mail. While not a mathematical genius, I did the math and realized that I would need precisely (no more, no less) ninety-six cents. While waiting for the prior customer to finish up, I reached into my pocket and found....EXACTLY ninety-six cents. I had exact change. You can probably imagine how elated that made me feel. I'm sure that you've been there...having exact change is delightful. You can pay for your item without waiting for change AND unload that pocketful of jangly crap you have been toting around all day. EXACT CHANGE!! Hooray. Three quarters, one dime, one nickel and six pennies...ninety-six cents!

Pretty soon, the prior customer finished up their irritating little transaction and moved along. I was up. I placed my envelopes on the counter and the postal clerk asked, "How can I help you?"

To which I proudly replied, "I need three stamps, please." I am always that polite. I think it is because of my solid midwest upbringing.

The postal clerk, having math skills equal to my own, quickly came to the conclusion that, "That will be ninety-six cents, please."

I reached back into my pocket and pulled out all my change, knowing that there was EXACTLY ninety-six cents there. As I pulled the ninety-six cents from my pocket one of the six pennies that I had in my pocket slipped through my fingers, fell to the floor, hit the floor, bounced twice and then began rolling...and rolling....and rolling. That little fucker rolled past my feet, past the little old lady in the overcoat and toward the walking cane display. It rolled in ever-tightening circles in front of the walking cane display until it came to a stop right there on the floor.

By this point, I had turned to watch the penny roll and began walking in the direction it appeared to be headed. The little old lady had turned with me, with the precision timing of the Blue Angels. She, one step in front of me.

Accordingly, she reached the penny one step ahead of me. I really didn't want to make this lovely woman bend down to pick up my penny, but she had position. So I really had no choice. Stiffly, she bent down to pick up that penny, lying right there in front of the walking cane display while I politely smiled and began to extend my hand to accept the penny. I couldn't help but think that this was such a kind gesture by this woman. The midwest is truly a wonderful place to live; the people are very polite and generally kind to each other.

I smiled at her and extended my hand and began to form the words "Thank you very much!" when she took that penny and placed it into her pocket.

Now, I stood there with my mouth agape and my hand extended with no hope of that penny ever coming back to its rightful owner. My brain raced. "That's my penny" then, "Let it go, it's just a penny" and then..."but you had EXACT change!" I must have run through this progression three times in that instant. I was aghast. I was shocked. I was appalled.

I turned around to the clerk and took out a dollar bill, placed the stamps on my envelopes and dropped them in the box.

You gotta pick your battles.

That's the way I roll.