Some people... maybe most... get stupid when they get old. I shouldn't lurk there, the man is as dumb as a post, lives in a tax-payer funded bubble of entitlement and sanctimony, and thinks Hillary Clinton would make a great president.
Apparently this urban outdoorsman is
the product of Christian family values and an
indifferent gubbiment that
refuses to step up and care for him.
EDIT: Okay! Alright, already! Yes, by Thunderbox standards, the Rat has an IQ of 23 and is therefore eligible to claim the coveted title of Scholarl Emeritus. He's fighting a noble battle with bad meds, chronic pain, a failing intellect and advancing age. I try to respect him but sometimes the old bastard just gets the best of me. There but for the grace of God go I, I guess. Like all oldsters of this type, visits should be kept very short and sweet.
I love Coopville! Coopville is ruled by two Rhode Island Red chickens: King Charles and Queen Maude. Chicken Mom and her husband are their loyal servants and are responsible for keeping the Kingdom fit for royalty and maintaining the palace coop and grounds. The place always looks like a million bucks, and when they aren't felling trees and landscaping - they are repelling invasions of wild turkeys and deer.
Some days at work are just hairy for me. The bugger of my job is that the harder I work, the more trouble I get in and the more work I create for myself and everyone else. Everyone is pissed at me because of it (except the company owners) and sometimes - a quick trip to Coopville just soothes my soul. The servants at Coopville are always doing something worthwhile and meaningful. When they dig a stump outta the ground - it gets hauled away to the dump or burned and it's gone. I endure the same hassles every day trying to get feckless fuckwits - that are dumber than that stump - to do their jobs. I have to beg, plead and threaten to get them to do their jobs and even if I succeed - they will still be there tomorrow doing the same unproductive chit they're doing today! Ya can't trust them either; just because they say they're going to take care of something or do something, it doesn't mean they'll actually do it. You have to follow up afterward and make sure they've done it, or start fighting with them all over again if they haven't.
CM, her husband and their farm take me back to my own childhood growing up in the rural farmlands. I wish my lords and masters were chickens too, HAR HAR HAR! There are days when the turkeys are too much to bear, HAR HAR HAR!!!
His Royal Highness, King Charles Of Coopville.
Hard work and good humour seem to be the order of the day
in His realm.
I just discovered Mom. Like CM and her husband - the lady is always doing something. Maybe I'm imagining it but from what little I've read, this lady is ruthlessly frugal and practical in her daily affairs, fiercely independent, and warm and intelligent when company drops in.
When women gossip they cluck, cackle and chatter and create an unholy racket. The best thing a man can do when women flock together like that is fire up the chainsaw, or the mower or the motorcycle... and rev it up good n' loud - and go do something useful. My mother and her hens used to do that and the could create estrogen powered intellectual vacuums that left me wanting to open my wrists and bleed myself out, HAR HAR HAR!
When ladies speak - quite often they sound like Mom. They're worth listening too, and a fella just wants to top up his coffee cup, set down and listen in while pretending not to. When I was a kid my grandmother and wife would often talk about the same stuff Mom does. They're scholars in the womanly arts and a fella would be wise to learn from them what he can. Like Mom, my Grandmother knew all kinds of life hacks: which cleaners were best for certain problems. Food prep tricks and short cuts that make life better and easier. Example: years ago we were out fishin' and Big Jeff produced a fry pan that hadn't been cleaned in centuries and had gunk and chunt baked onto it - I think some of it actually fused with the metal on a molecular level. It was disgusting - but it was the Official Camp Fry Pan and it was that or nothing. My Gramma would have shot him (and his friends just for being there) - to see a good pan treated like that. I can't remember what she used to clean fouled pans - I've since forgotten. Was it Liquid Plumber? Tide? Whatever - ya soaked a pan like that in a sink full of water and the right cleaner - and that gunk comes off like magic. A lot of dish soap manufacturers claim their cleaners will do it but I've never seen it. All I do remember is that once we got home, I called Gramma, got educated, and then I cleaned The Official Camp Fry Pan up clean and bright as new. Big Jeff was stunned. (Of course, the next year it was gummed back up again because the stupid bugger wouldn't keep it clean).
That's the impression I get from Mom - that a fella can learn things from her that no man could teach 'em!
Whatever - I'll just sit over here with my coffee and let the world go by - and Mom and her distinguished guests will never notice me. Carry on ladies, and pretend I'm not here!
If you have some elders in your life, maybe today would be a good one to call them up out of the blue or drop in.