Shorty Shorts #14

You folks deserve more than just an SS post, but I’ll have big news for you in a couple of days to make up for it.

Anyway, I was driving to work yesterday and saw something fairly interesting.  There was a school bus behind me.  That’s not particularly interesting, I admit, but what was interesting was the bus driver.  She was smoking.

Funny.  But not appropriate on a school bus.

Funny. But not appropriate on a school bus.

I couldn’t see for sure if there were children on the bus or not, but even if there weren’t…

Really?  Smoking on a school bus?  That shit should be a fire able offense.  What the hell do people think nowadays?

~RCS

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Veteran’s Day Part Two!

I couldn’t help but spread this one along, such a cute way of coming home from a war to meet your children. 🙂

~RCS

Update: For some reason the video disappeared from the post.  Sorry about that, should be working now, I think.

Birthday

Just thought I would give everyone a head’s up that today was my birthday.
Last night my fiance and I had a little party with a few of her friends from work; although the party was wholly unrelated. We actually just scheduled the party last weekend for ‘next Tuesday’.
The party had been going on for a few hours before I realized it was my birthday.

Birthdays change a lot between childhood and adulthood. As a child I’d receive numerous gifts and as I got older they got better.
This year my futute grandmother-in-law sent me $10 which made my fiance realize that she’d almost forgotten it was my birthday. That’s all I’ve got; although my mother uaually gives me an amazon.com gift card in December for my birthday, then another on February for christmas, so that’ll add to it.
But here’s the biggest difference: I don’t care. When I was a child I used to count halves of ages and almosts, gonna bes, and going ons.
“I’m 3 and a half years old!”
“I’m almost 4 years old, now.”
“I’m 5, but I’m gonna be 6 in 8 months!”
Now somebody asks me how old I am and I don’t even know the answer anymore.
“So how old are ya now, you fine, strapping young buck,” no one ever says to me.
“Well…I can drive, so I’m over 16, I can vote so I’ve gotta be over 18. They let me buy booze and own a handgun (which is a bad combination) so I have to be over 21. But I can’t collect Social Security…so I’m not 65, yet.”
The average of 21 and 65 is 43, so now I think I’ll just start telling people I’m 43.

~RCS

It’s all good until they stop saying, “You look good for your age,” I guess.

Update: Well my phone’s a piece of shit…I posted this from my phone yesterday night (my actual birhday) from work and the phone told me it uploaded it.  Until I actually came home and looked and it was n unfinished draft.  I had to rewrite it and republish it.  Don’t buy the Huawei Ascend, folks…it does this kind of stuff to me constantly.  Huawei = Chinese for Junk.

No Children, Thank You!

Some personal information about me…I have no children.  I don’t like children, I don’t think they’re cute, and I certainly don’t want to have one right now.  Thankfully my fiancé is of the same ideology.  She may want them some day later, but she doesn’t want any right now.

I, however, don’t want any…ever.  The younger a child gets, the less I want to deal with it.  Ever since I was old enough to hold myself up my family has tried to pawn their children off on me.  As soon as my mother decided I didn’t need a babysitter anymore, I got solicited to watch other people’s children.

I politely (at first) declined.  Every opportunity people offered to let me watch their kids, eventually offering me perks such as free TV and fridge raiding permission.  They even offered to bring the child to my home so that I could remain in my own domain and simply watch the child there.  Not to mention the money…for the poor family I came from, everybody always seemed to have enough money to throw at a babysitter.

“Man, they’re gonna shut the power off if I don’t pay that light bill!” an aunt would exclaim; immediately followed by, “Oh hey, would you watch my daughter for me when I head out to the bar to troll for bill-paying men?  I’ll give you $20 that I don’t have to spare.”

Okay, well maybe they said it a little more diplomatically than that, but you get the idea.  Either way they were always offering me stuff to watch their children.  And tempting as the offers may be, I knew two important things that always prevented me from accepting.

1. I don’t like children, at all.  I’m not going to play with your child, so he’s going to be starved for attention and bored the whole time.  I may not like them, but I think they probably deserve better than that…so find a real babysitter.

2. I think children are generally plague-filled balls of disgusting habits, traits, and features.  If your child chokes, I’ll call an ambulance…but I’m not sticking my finger into that throat to dislodge a life-threatening piece of hotdog.  Likewise, if the kid craps his pants…he’s gonna have a crusty ass by the time you show up; and if he shits on the floor, you’re paying a lot extra.  Like brand new carpet extra.

So in the end, it was always in everyone’s best interest I not watch children.  So that was when my brilliant mother stepped in and accepted for me on an occasion or two.  Of course, since she didn’t have to watch the children and it was me doing all the work…no payment was considered necessary.  I’m not sure why she thought it was okay to rope me into this stuff for free, if I wasn’t willing to do it for pay.

Whether it was a cousin who felt we had some kind of bond of kinship, even though I only saw them once or twice a month and tried to avoid them like a rat-born plague; or her best friend’s creepy daughter who once sidled up to me on a chair barely big enough for my own ass…looked me in the eyes, stuck a hand down her pants, and in her sweetly innocent five-year-old voice said, “This is where the man puts his penis and warms you up.”

Pics or it didn’t happen!

Needless to say, I’ve never developed a liking to children of any brand.  I get along with teens, depending on how they were raised, pretty well.  I don’t get on much with the rebellious antsy kids or the ‘ghetto’ kids who keep their designer jeans hanging down to their knees and complain about how rough a life they’ve got in between the counting sessions of their $50 a day allowance.

As I recently mentioned, I worked for my money all my life.  I don’t need to hear about how your allowance barely covers your cell phone bill because you can’t constrain your texting.  You’re 9 years old, put down the phone and pick up a damn stick and for god’s sake pretend it’s a frickin’ sword, or a wand, or a conductor’s baton!  I don’t have time for your first world problems…I’m busy trying to drive past the homeless Navy Veteran without making eye contact goddamn it!

I know, right?!

What does any of this have to do with anything at all, you ask?

Why don’t you simmer down and stop interrupting me, and I’ll tell you!

Anywhow, now that I’m in my adult years it’s no longer whether or not I want to babysit for someone else (oddly enough nobody ever offers to let me watch their kids anymore, maybe they read my blog?).  Now it is a matter of when I’m going to get children of my own.  Except that I don’t want any, and I still don’t like children.

“That’ll change when you get one of your own.”

Yeah, some time-sucking beast that has no self-sufficiency and does nothing but whine, create messes, and force me to enter hospitals to make sure it isn’t dying.  At least if I get a dog and screw it up, I can just shoot it and bury it so no one knows what happened.  Friggin’ cops ask about disappearing babies.

What kind of drum?

I’m never going to like babies, not even my own.  Especially since I don’t want them.  Try giving a dog to a cat person and see if they enjoy your gift.  Now introduce that dog to them by having it bite them in the abdomen and cause hormonal distress to their bodies for 9 months and finally have them claw the hell out of their kitties (that’s a pussy joke, meow).  On top of that tell them they have to pay for his shots, grooming, food, regular collar changes and then add in that it will take years to house-train him and they’ll have to use expensive types of newspaper when he poops.  See if they really like the dog, or if they just claim they do so they don’t look like bad pet owners.

Lots of people hate children…lots of people hate their own children.

Sorry, they can’t all be funny…

So, convincing me that everything will change when I have one of my own is faulty logic.  That’s like saying, “I know you can’t fly, but when you jump out that 2nd story window, you’ll be perfectly fine; you’ll even be better off than before.”  Sure there’s a chance I’ll leap out that window and land on a pile of hundred-dollar bills.  There’s also a pretty good chance I’ll land on this fancy thing called concrete and shatter both my kneecaps.

So it annoys the shit out of me when people assure me I’ll suddenly change my way of thinking when my fiance pops a disgusting, blood-covered, hairless monkey out of her crotch and the doctor asks if I want to sever its connection to my wife with a pair of scissors.  I can already feel my love for the creature blooming.  After causing pain, discomfort, and stress for the woman I love with all my heart for 9 months, I’m now supposed to elevate you to a position over her for the next 18 years?  Good luck with that, chum.

And if they don’t go for the mind-altering route, they’ll go on an even crazier tangent, “You’ll change your mind about kids in a few years.”

Are you sure about that?  Totally positive?  Because you see, I’ve hated children for about twenty years now.  In five years I’m going to suddenly  turn to my fiance and say, “Holy shit, hon!  Burn the condoms, I want a kid of my own!”  The only possible way I’d want a child anytime soon is if I find a nice Chinese man willing to buy him for more than I think an OBGYN would charge to get the kid out of her in the first place.  And that’s really not a healthy father-child relationship.

You know, kiddo…daddy was gonna sell you to a nice Chinese man, but the police caught him before you were born. That’s why daddy won’t look you in the eye.

Most people shrug me off, but an article I saw recently has vindicated me!  If you think I sound crazy, read this article to see that I am not a fringe minority.  There are others out there who do not want children!  READ IT!!

~RCS

Okay, admittedly they might not be as psychotic as I am, but they still don’t want kids.

Shorty Shorts! #4

I’ve been volunteering at a summer day camp lately, and somehow my fiance convinced me not to take the week off of work.  So I’ve had no days off for over a week and I’m triple-doubling, while doing manual labor and working with children.

I plan to have a blog about said things, these children I’ve spoken of, in the near future.  For now…I’m too tired to even prepare food, so I’m going to bed.

~RCS

 

Contract Work vs. Allowance

You know, when I was in High School a lot of my peers talked about their allowances.  Mostly about how little they got and how much they wanted.  In the early days, it was $10 a week, back in middle-school.  Then by Sophomore year it was closer to $50 a week.  When that wasn’t enough a few people got a job or two, but a few went the other way and started their own business.

The guy who sat in front of me in one of my classes admitted that he made $5,000 a week.  I figured that’s a pretty good allowance, so I asked him about it.  It was a pretty simple job…buy goods straight from the manufacturer for dirt-cheap and sell it at high-value markup.  His product of choice was a mixed-bag of ‘goodies’: Weed, coke, meth, and crack mostly.  He claimed he could do even more, but at $5k a week he was making just enough to pay for his own habit, along with enough for a pair of Nike shoes or designer jeans or something.

So the filled-in tear drop means you made honor roll and the empty one means Magna Cum Laude? That’s nifty!

He’s probably dead by now, but the fact is that he had a good shtick.

I got an ‘allowance’ when I was a kid, too.  Until I was almost ten I was paid 25 cents an hour to do household chores.  When I realized minimum wage at the time was $4.25 an hour.  I negotiated myself to $2, like both of my older sisters were getting at that time, within a few years.  Of course by then, minimum wage $4.75 an hour…damn inflation.

I was expected to do an hour a week of free work in chores, then I got paid $1.00 for the first hour and $2.00 for each hour after that.  I used to wait a month to get paid, because I didn’t want to have to start over at half-price again.

My mother told me this was not acceptable and I would have to be paid every week.  I cried foul and admitted I saw the value of waiting until I had something specific I wanted to spend my money on to collect it.  She reluctantly admitted, “I didn’t expect you to catch on to my ploy so easily.”

It was great when my older sisters were both out of the house and I was the sole provider of ‘chore’ duty.  It was like I was part of the Union!  I got to set the terms of arbitration, now!

I noted that, by this point in time, minimum wage was $5.15 an hour.  I recognized the validity of her argument that it was under the table and that my work was for a non-profit organization.  I was, of course, providing a slew of services for a cancer survivor.  So I agreed to a flat-fee of $5.00 per hour, under the table of course.

This benefited both parties, but I’ll admit I definitely had a much better arrangement than in past dealings with this particular employer.  Mother, Inc. needed a lot of work done the company cared only about effort put in, not the ultimate result.  So like any other government-funded subcontractor…I did a lot of work, but not much got done.

Ungh, my job’s killing my back! Maybe I should invest in an ergonomic chair; lemme think what are they called? Oh, right…beds.

Mother, Inc. wanted French drains to keep the basement from flooding when it rained.  I started digging a trench for the pipes to be put down.  I quickly realized the trench had to be over a foot deep and about thirty-five feet long.  I also quickly realized that if I dug a shallow trench around the affected area and sloped it to the driveway, the water would run off into said driveway.

Problem solved!

My next job was to repair a disaster zone in the driveway area caused by a sudden increase in ground water levels.  It was a veritable swamp zone by the time I got my instructions for the job!  The little bit of gravel in the mostly grassland area was almost all below ground level, sucked down by the sinking wet mass.  Problem was…I was given an infinite labor budget, but no materials budget.  I was unable to affect a resolution for the situation immediately.

I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as bad as the media made it out to be.

About this same time I got contracted by Mother, Inc. to demolish an old, unused chimney.  I was quoted an estimate of about ten hours of work, total, removing brick and closing down the space.  It wasn’t until I got into the job that I found out there was concrete block under the brick façade.

Realization dawned upon the crew and it was quickly decided we’d turn both of the smaller contracts into one big contract.  The idea was proposed to Mother, Inc. and they were all for it.

The work on the chimney was mostly hammer and chisel stuff.  Break through the mortar and separate the bricks, but as it got closer to the ground it became apparent the structural integrity had been degraded by the work.  We were able to haul large chunks of it out by the end of things.

These single bricks and brick chunks were then hauled down to the driveway where I busted them up with a sledgehammer, using it to fill in the sinkhole spots of the soft ground.  It wasn’t industrial gravel, but it would do.

The underlying block saw a similar fate.  They were bigger and heavier, but they were weak and rotted and came out easily enough.  Before long both jobs were basically done, but now the driveway area was pretty rough and jagged and we had a slight problem with uneven driving conditions.  A near miss on a flat tire here or there and it became apparent we needed something else.

Then came the word from above…another flood zone.  The roadside creek area was beginning to get back up, something about stones washing into the waterway, I guess.  Mother, Inc. contracted us to clean it up and we found it a fairly easy, albeit dirty, job.

Naturally, we responded before any casualties were reported.

We cleaned out the debris and found some good, smooth, river rock, too.  The sledgehammer at the driveway site made quick work of them and we put them overtop of the rough stuff, buffering it well.

So with the chimney site opened back up to pedestrian travel, the basement nice and dry, and the driveway region built up and levied, we gave our ‘mission complete’ statement to Mother, Inc. on the roadside creek job and were given another task.

Mother, Inc. wanted the hilly areas north of the capital, House, leveled and brought down a bit.  It was a cake job, I guess.  $5.00 an hour, under the table, to dig out a hill that was so big you’d need a big machine to make a dent in it.  I had my trust mattock pick and my shovel, with a wheelbarrow or two to boot.

It was hard work, but expectations were low.  An inch here, an inch there, and progress was declared.  Any time I started hurting for money…I’d just clear out some recurring brush and dig another inch back, another inch to the side, maybe do some aesthetic work for the public opinion.

By the time I closed up shop and left the area, I’d done about 8 square feet of work.  Not bad for a four-year project, I guess.  I’ve seen the local DOT construction crews do worse.

All in all it was a pretty successful contract.  Mother, Inc.’s doing pretty good these days, even though the new companies in the area are nowhere near as cheap as I bid for the work.

Every once in a while, though, I get a call from the organization and come up to do some pro bono work.  It’s for a good cause, after all.

~RCS

Photopost: Babies and Children

I won’t lie…I’m not a big fan of children.  I consider them somewhat of a necessary evil; very rarely entertaining or cute like most people claim they are.  But occasionally, just every once in a  while, they actually are cute.  Usually with the addition of humorous content to them, like a caption…like the following pictures:

Because she's a wizard, Harry.

Here’s a very young Sonny Corleone, proving that he’s always been the firebrand of the movie mafioso family.

Whatever you say Bossman--err, Bossboy.

Here’s a reminder that not all children are cute…as a matter of fact, not many children are ever cute.  But this kid makes Mr. Bean look good.

How did such a cute woman...make such a hideous creature fall out of her body?

Here’s proof that children are stupid.  I sure as hell wouldn’t take candy from this guy…

As a matter fact, I'd run like hell if he offered me candy. And I'm an adult.

Here’s future economics professor.

I wish I could afford a doll house...

Along with our economics professor, above, we have a future rap artist below…

And here’s a note to all the parents out there who think it’s okay to bring your children along to a fancy dinner.  For the record…it’s not.  McDonald’s is one thing, but don’t bring them to ruin my anniversary dinner at Olive Garden.  I mean, really.

I actually am rather fond of those 'no-kids' restaurants.

Well that’s all folks.  I’ll let you get back to pretending to work…I’ve got something to do myself, too…

Maybe I should get a puppy?

~RCS

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