So. I’m back from my secret meeting out to sunny California whereat I had a wonderful time, I’m back to home turf, which, in its veryownself is wonderful, and I’ve returned to my five-times-weekly, daily visits to The Great Radiator. As I have mixed emotions as to the volume of wonderfulness I feel, I’ve been required to make an evaluation. As I always do in circumstances such as these, I count on one of our Founding Fathers.
OK, for starters, is it Founding Fathers—all capitalized and shit—or should they be marginalized as founders in much the same way as modern day conservatives marginalize the true meanings of their brave Declarations and Bills and Constitutions. Likewise, did I properly communicate, herein above, that I go to visit The Great Radiator each Monday-Friday, weekly?
Me, I’ve long thought that if there had been a few Founding Mothers, America would have gotten its shit together way fucking sooner than now. Hell, set a six-pack of strong black women to writing the Bill of Rights, and our brand of republic would be the actual world standard, and not simply the delusional wishings of American assholes.
When looking at my current life in the perspectives of a Ben Franklin Decision-Making Matrix, I’m needing further B Frankie evaluations. For those readers not familiar with old Bennie’s decision-making matrix, it’s a three-step process he developed to make even the most difficult decisions more easily made. It’s one of those “outweigh” dealios, wherein a person makes a decision based upon a ledger, and which side of the ledger scores “higher”. Or “highest” should there be more than two possible solutions to your particular, studied dilemma.
As my current dilemma is whether it is truly wonderful to be back home, and I choose to think it either wonderful, or not, then I have a two outcome matrix. First, draw a line down the center of a page of paper and put “Plusses” atop one side, and “Minuses” atop the other. Second, place each positive aspect of your issue on the appropriate side, negative aspects to the other. When you have exhausted writing aspects, assign a value of significance to each—I use a one-to-100 valuation system—then add up the numbers for each side. The winner will have the largest resultant tabulated number.
If negatives outweigh the positives, shit-can the idea. Versa with your vices, move right on down the road.
OK, let’s stop the presses right here. Seems like, mayhaps, old Ben’s system is considerably more than a three-step program when you’re as fucked up as am I. First step would be to get a leaf of paper, then find a writing instrument, then clean a spot on your messy desk upon which to place said paper leaf. Then—as you pride yourself with the same proudnesses in drawing lines on already-lined paper as you do with the accuracies in your word-smithing—you look for the fucking ruler, an instrument last spotted that time you were creating a thong for the Squirt.
That’s the thong you made so that your adorable little puppy could view her cute tooter wrapped and pulled tight into a camel toe. I’m still taking shit from my psycho therapist for that one. Parenting can be a real bitch sometimes. Finding the balance of safety net between what’s OK, and what camel toes might have stepped over the line, eludes me.
Alludes me as well, suggesting that this parenting shit started out as difficult and has only grown as I have matured as said parent. Turns out that fathering two precocious puppies, as a quite mature and well-rounded adult man, is way harder than the raising of my actual kids. Then, again, I had considerable assistance from their mother, the said and same psycho therapist, aforementioned.
But this entire vaccination/inoculation scenario playing out in the national news has gotten me to thinking. Who, or what, is the arbiter of rules for raising kids. I mean, really, who inthefuck gets to say when a parent might have crossed the line? Who are you to tell me that putting in the effort to help satisfy my young charge’s curiosity as to the plumpness of her girl meat package was inappropriate? If you could have seen the smile on that little doggie’s face when I showed her the photos…
And, having said earlier that my current dilemma was but a two-sided matrix, I’m wondering if I might be one of those black-or-white, all-or-nothing, manipulative borderline assholes I personally find so offensive. Ugh. It isn’t that I don’t already have an overloaded plate of mental disorders. My dilemma is way more complex than a simple yea/nay thingie, as evidenced by the simple fact that my Ben Franklin Decision-Making Matrix scored 3,348 Plusses to 3,198 minuses, a winning margin of less than five percent. Had I added but a third matrix column, I’m certain that Plusses would have won in a runaway.
OK, would the third choice have made it a matrices, and I’m thinking that, since I do consider things not black or white, then I am not an offensive borderline personality(?/.) How, inthefuck, does one punctuate that last sentence?
But just for the record, it is wonderful to be back to La casita Johnson de Santa Fe. As the Squirt is the only person I told what I was out there to California to do, I can’t tell you about the excited conversation she and I had, as it relates to said return home, but I can tell you this. I did not leave them with the crazy dog lady, instead I had an in-home sitter.
Squirt’s in love, and Yoda drags a pair of the nice woman’s panties everywhere he goes. Me, I find it sad that there is no telling if the goat dog acquired them when clean or dirty, and sadder still that there is no doubt to whom those panties belong. It would be nice to need a debate over whether they were left by the sitter in my absence, or, while in my presence some other female removed a pair of panties here to the casita, and left them.
Which brings up another parental issue. How filthy dirty must those panties get before I take them away from Yoda and wash them? Might their having started dirty be a/the reason he is so enamored with them? Am I the only one thinking this is a serious parental issue? Was it the chicken, or the eggie?
Fuck it. I’m making an emotion-based decision, and I now declare that my shit is truly wonderful. And while I’m at it, Fuck Walmart too!