Rambling Man

So I may be doing a review on a website that I probably shouldn’t name right now. I’m not sure, but I think it’s supposed to help you keep track of your social media and everything. I’m waiting to hear back about it, but I think that they may just be trying to get me curious to make me want to buy it. The sad thing is that it’s working. As I sit here waiting to hear my email go off, I’m eagerly awaiting some correspondence with the company. I gave them a price, but really, I’d probably do it for the free membership. I hope they are hagglers, and didn’t discount me for the high quote, because if it works well, and helps me better manage my blog, I’ll pimp the shit out of their product.

Oh the sadness of it all. The reason I asked for the cash is because it’s a product to up your SEO, and as much as I’d like more clicks, I would rather not be labelled as a douche because of it. That’s why it would be cool to get paid to use their product. Then I wouldn’t have to feel like such a piece of shit for going against my morals. I wouldn’t look like a huge asshole if it was a review of a product, would I?

I love trying to manipulate people into believing what I want them to believe. It’s kind of amazing how it works. Unfortunately my readers ( you), are too smart for that bullshit. I wish I was a redneck comedian or something like that, because they can tell their audience pretty much anything, and they believe it. I mean seriously, people are driving around with “Git-R-Done!” written all over their fucking vehicles, and they are yelling out, “Here’s your sign” whenever someone makes a mistake.

Sometimes people drink Lysol and Coke.

No, no, no, here’s your sign, motherfucker. There is nothing worse than seeing someone with poor punctuation, spelling, and grammar, calling someone else stupid. I mean, I realize that no one is perfect, but really if you’re going to call a group of people Yous, you don’t get the right to make fun of someone else for a dumb thing that they did. It’s got something to do with the pot and the kettle, or glass houses and stones, I don’t really remember which one.

I don’t care if you want to have poor punctuation grammar and spelling yourself. I’m probably going to make fun of you, but it will be just that, fun. It’s not everybody’s forte, just like fixing cars isn’t mine. Well really nothing is when it comes down to it. There’s not much that I’m really good at, so I poke fun at people with bad spelling because it makes me better than them. I don’t care if they’re better than me at everything else, if I can out spell those bastards, I win. 

I guess it’s an inferiority complex, or something like that. I’ve never had any ambition to speak of. I’ve never wanted a big house, fancy car, or a fast boat. I have always just wanted to be happy. I think that everyone wants that for themselves, and I guess that different things make different people happy. For some it may be world travel, the cottage in the Muskokas, or enough money to buy Wicklow and maybe a little bit of Grafton, but for me it isn’t anything like that.

I think that with the tongue on him, he probably git’s r done quite handily

For me it’s crawling into bed with the most beautiful girl I know, every night. It’s waking up three or four times in the night and feeling her pressed against me, reassuring me that this isn’t a dream. It’s having the girls wake me up in the middle of the night by opening their door, which I left noisy on purpose. It’s the only door in the house that will wake you up from a dead sleep when it’s opened, and it’s staying that way until they move out. Happiness is getting the odd weekend up at the family’s cabin, taking the kids to the beach, and enjoying a few beers around the campfire while they’re asleep. In a sense I’m the luckiest guy I know, but a lot of people wouldn’t see it that way. A lot of people would call us poor, because we don’t have the finest things in life.

To me, things don’t matter. They really don’t. I think they matter to the girls, because they seem very impressed by big, fancy houses, expensive trips, and 3-D movies. I grew up in a small house, but it didn’t seem small, it seemed just right. I had my own room, except for every other weekend, when all six of us would be there, then I had to share it with my two stepbrothers. 

I guess I always called them stepbrothers, but I thought of them as brothers. It’s kind of like it is with the girls. I have two stepdaughters, and I think of them as my daughters, but I don’t call them that out of respect for their dad. He’s a good father to them, and I don’t want to make it look like I’m trying to horn in on his kids. Sometimes I say “our girls”, because in a sense I do count them as mine, but it’s mostly because I am a big part of their life now, and I would do anything for them. 

Last week over at Dude Write, there was a post put up by WorkingDan that deals with the American Dream. A lot of what he said I agreed with, but some of it just kind of didn’t sit right with me. I don’t know what part it was, or if it was just little things all the way through, but it just felt wrong. I always thought that the Canadian Dream was the same, and maybe it is, but not in my world. A big steak dinner on my birthday would be amazing even if I had to cook it. The fact that there was someone to share it with would make Sloppy Joe’s on my birthday seem great. I’ve spent way too many of them alone in a fucking bush camp in the middle of nowhere, and I value having someone to enjoy it with. I say alone even though there’s usually a few hundred people with me, because I don’t count too many of them among my friends. 

All in all I liked Dan’s post, and it made me feel kind of sorry for him, whether that was his intent or not, but it was the sense of entitlement that kind of irked me. I’m a full believer in “you get what you give”, and that has a lot to do with attitude as well. I have not contributed to society in too many positive ways, so I can’t expect society to take care of me. Sure I want them to, but I can’t expect it. I need to give a lot back before I will reap my rewards, as I already have emotionally. I’m sure that if I had cared enough to save a bit of the money that I made in the oilfield, or worked harder and longer than I did I’d be sitting pretty right now, but that’s not the case here. Through several bad decisions (mostly my own), and a laziness matched only by the koala bear or the sloth, I have managed to work for almost 30 years with basically nothing to show for it. 

I say nothing but that’s not totally true. I have memories, I have friends. Good friends. I have an amazing wife and two amazing daughters, and I have the love and support of my friends and family. Who gives a fuck if I have to drive around in a beater, make my coffee at home, or rely on friends to throw the parties? I don’t. I don’t think my friends do. They seem to like me for who I am, and not what I can give them. Quite honestly they’ve never asked me for anything. Not to help them move, cut firewood, or give them a hand job behind the shed. They only seem to care about people, and that’s all right by me. 

Sorry for rambling, but I got this program that I just speak into the mic and it types it out itself. I’m just trying to make it work and this is what comes out. I guess this post is a little longer than most, and maybe it’ll make up for me not posting very much lately. I doubt it, but maybe it will. 

While we’re not on the subject, I should tell you that we need your Therapy Thursday questions in by Wednesday. We don’t have anything waiting in the bank, so send us in your problems, and we will fuck them up for sure. Remember that none of us are actual psychologists, psychiatrists, or even lowly therapists. We’re just smart bastards that want to help you get through your pain, anger, or frustration. 

Send them into birdman at change the topic.com. Apparently I have to spell it out like that to keep the filthy spammers away. Dirty fucking spammers. I hope it’s something offensive, because last week we had a Sensitive Sally “unlike” the fan page because we were mean to the Republicans. Maybe we could be mean to someone else this week and thin out the rest of the herd. I’m actually quite surprised that last week’s post could have offended anyone any more than the other posts. I guess they weren’t around when I was crass, insolent, and irreverent (if that was ever the case).

Mine’s a tale that can’t be told, my freedom I hold dear,


14 thoughts on “Rambling Man

  1. Just wanted to tell you one of my favourite signs…Always check the classifieds when I need a laugh…Pure Bread Dog, gets me every time.Must be a Wonder dog, or something???

  2. “I got this program that I just speak into the mic and it types it out itself.”

    Hey! I’ve got that program! What? Dammit, daddy is BUSY! No, you cannot jump off the roof of the house. What? No, it doesn’t matter if you hold an umbrella. Yes, I know you saw daddy do it, but you shouldn’t. Oh, fer cryin’ out… Look what you made me write!

  3. You’ve got a great handle on what being rich is really all about. Hubster and I don’t have a bunch of money. We live somewhat comfortably (we get our bills paid and we do have some luxuries – like a nice laptop, not like fancy-schmancy cars/boats/stuff like that). But, we have each other and we have a plethora of awesome friends.

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