Smitty’s loose Change #18

Live a good life.

If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by.

If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them.

If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.

***

MSN Headline
City in Ontario may be the most miserable in the US.

Can you tell me what’s wrong with that sentence?   😯

THE PIPES, THE PIPES ARE CALLING

They called one company ‘Sider Plumbing.’  Putting siding on homes or buildings occurred long after surnames were assigned.  This is not likely an English name.  Here in ex-Berlin, it seems that it might be German, but research tells me that it (used to be spelled Seider) is Yiddish/Jewish, meaning prayer book.

Less than a week later, they called another, ‘Teahen Plumbing.’  I know what a peahen is.  She is a female peafowl.  Only the males are properly called peacocks.  What is a ‘Teahen?’  It’s a surname that began as Teahan.  Irish (Kerry): reduced Anglicized form of Gaelic Ó Téacháin ‘descendant of Téachán’, a personal name probably derived from teitheachán ‘fugitive.’. Many regard plumbers as crooks.  It is not a name for one to brag about.

***

If you want to know why we are here or what your ultimate, divine purpose is, you should accept that the answer is either 1) unknowable or 2) nonexistent. Either way, demanding that your worldview include answers to these types of questions, completely unvetted by reason, is childish and irresponsible. The universe doesn’t owe you answers and is not obligated to make sense to the likes of you. These questions will never be answered (even if an answer actually exists). Stop pretending you’re important enough to deserve an answer, and that you’ve found the answer when you haven’t.

***

Like Father – Like Son

Once upon a time in the dark mists of the past, I published a vignette about how I inconvenienced a gold-crucifix-wearing young woman into removing a shopping cart she’d abandoned in a handicap parking space.  Channeling his Father, the son recently got a chance to duplicate the feat.

Coming home after a long night at work, he stopped at the local supermarket.  Even with a stiff/sore leg from a hard shift, and a Handicap Permit in the car, he didn’t park in any of the reserved spots, nearest the store, instead, pulling into the next one in a row.

As he came out, a man ahead of him pushed a cart with a green, plastic You-Pack bin, and a bag of groceries into the middle of a handicap spot.  Abandoning the cart there, he carried his haul to the next lane, and put them in the trunk.

The son was aghast!  “You ignorant, arrogant, selfish, thoughtless asshole!  He grabbed the cart, bumped it over a curb, placed it broadside in front of the guy’s car, and stood beside it, glaring.  The Asshole came bustling out of his car.
What the Hell are you doing?”
“I’m abandoning this cart here, just like you abandoned it in a handicap spot!”
“What do you expect me to do about it?”
“Put it away, where it belongs, either in the cart corral, or back in the store!”
“I’m busy.  I have places to go.”
“I’m not.  I just got off work.  I have all day.”

It turned out that Mr. Abandonment Issues wasn’t nearly as busy as he claimed.  The son detests confrontation.  He said, “I was shaking all the time – but it felt so good.”  Not bad for a second-generation Atheist!  😎  I am so proud of him!

***

Church: “Our church is on fire!  Please send help.”
911: “All our engines are busy helping tax-paying customers.  Have you tried praying?

***

When the wife’s OCD spills over into her cooking,  (Less and less these days.  I am making more and more one-pan meals) the exactly correct utensil must be used.  We can’t measure out one cup of milk in a graduated two-cup measuring cup.  We can’t whip up a small amount of sauce in an easily-accessible, large bowl.  And cutting boards…… 😯

I just donated three lightly-used cutting boards to Goodwill.  How many do we have left??!  Is it one?  Three?  Eleven?  Or Oh-My-God??!  That’s a trick question.  The real answer is somewhere between eleven, and Oh-My-God.

We have them in pine, fir, maple, ash, poplar and bamboo.  We have soft plastic, rigid nylon, glass, and Plexiglas.  We have them with holes, and hang-up handles, but nowhere to hang them.  We have them with rubber feet, so that they don’t slip on a counter.  We have them from a tiny, pâté or soft cheese server, barely larger than my palm, up to one that covers the double kitchen sink and lets us carve a 25 lb. Christmas turkey.

If You Can’t Say Anything Nice

The son and I were discussing a subject the other day, something we’ve been aware of for some time.  Once you die, nobody is supposed to say anything negative about you.  In fact, when someone dies, the survivors go out of their way to find something, anything, nice, to describe the deceased.

The people I’m talking about are usually ones we’ve read about in the newspapers, so the term, ”Known to police”, often applies.  You can abuse your wife and kids, kick your dog, throw rocks though your neighbor’s windows, screw hookers, and die by being run down by a big-rig while wandering down the middle of a road in a drug and alcohol-induced fog, and someone will still be quoted as saying, But in his entire life, he never once parked in a handicap spot.

Case in point, a body was found in a local park.  Two days later, the papers report that a male has been arrested and charged with manslaughter.  So far, nothing unusual.  The papers don’t give names, so the dead guy could be Bob, or, Nkwumbe.  But then, the guy named Bob gets easy, cheap bail, and Nkwumbe‘s relatives start wailing.  Black guy is killed and white guy gets out, it’s racism!  Two days later, about a hundred people, mostly South Sudanese, but with some whites among them, march on city hall.  Why city hall?  They acknowledge to the local paper, that they played the race card too soon, but now wish to complain that the police aren’t providing them enough information.  March on the police station.  See how long that lasts.

Bob says, he and his girlfriend were walking through the park, and the black guy accosted them with a replica pistol and tried to rob them.  He dug into his backpack, pulled out a knife, stabbed the black guy once, and they ran for it.  Nkwumbe’s mother and sisters insist that he would never do such a thing.  He just got out of jail after serving four months for assault, but, he was turning his life around.  He’s a good boy now.  Yeah, right!

I’m going to keep an eye on this story.  Even assuming that the black guy actually was the deserving criminal we believe he is, there are a couple of questions I have about the white “victim.”  If he really thought that the gun was real, how did he have the time and the presence of mind, to dig in a backpack, for a knife that he just happened to be carrying?  If he knew the gun was a fake, how and why did he get close enough to kill the black guy with one stab?  Having stabbed him and run for their lives, why didn’t they report the altercation to the police?  There’s more to this than meets the eye but, if Nkwumbe was at home on the couch, minding his own business, his mama wouldn’t have to whitewash a black man.

In another case of not taking responsibility for one’s actions, we have a man in Toronto on trial for murder.  He and his buddy, both crack addicts, were roaming the streets, when they encountered a man at an ATM.  They staggered over to harass the guy, and his friend sucker-punched him.  They giggled, and lurched on down the street.  Here’s where it went bad.  Like the Zimmerman guy in Florida, who shot the Negro kid after being told by police to ignore him and not get out of the car, the victim got four of his buddies from a bar and went out to find them.

Five drunks against two crack-heads, not good odds or conducive to a good ending.  They caught up to them at a pedestrian tunnel, where crackerbox bashed his head with a brick, and then stomped it several times, killing him.  Trying to beat the murder rap, he’s playing it as self-defense.  He claims that, after he hit him with the brick and knocked him down, the guy trying to stumble back to his feet constituted a danger, so he stomped him.  It was all spur-of-the-moment.  The victim’s grandmother asks, if it wasn’t premeditated, why did he have a brick?  It might have just been lying on the ground.  I know, if five guys approached me, at night, in a tunnel, I’d be looking for something too.

Now he’s trying to get sympathy, and lighter sentencing, from the judge.  His lawyer cited a difficult childhood and a troubled life.  He’s abused booze and drugs since he was nine.  Just once, I’d like to hear one of these guys admit, “My Mom and Dad were fine, I’m just a shithead.”  He’ll probably find Jesus in jail.  Why is it that so many jerks give their life to God, only after f**cking it up so badly, that nobody else wants it?

Meanwhile, it turns out that the victim, who was partying in a bar, and then went out looking for trouble with four of his friend, and found it, was an award-winning hockey player who was about to start a job with a Boston legal firm in three days.  And he liked kittens, and helped old ladies across the street.