1 Thing You Can Avoid to Escape Becoming an Asshole

 

Stop insisting that you’re a “little grouchy” but don’t know why.

It is a sadistic ploy by those who feel they aren’t getting enough attention and wish to bring the entire focus on themselves. For you see,:

Some of the virtues of human beings can also become vices.

This comes to play with this situation.

When we find out something is broken or faltering or in this case, grouchy, we’re compelled to try to fix it.

So rather than beginning the trip or starting the new project or focusing on an important family matter, the “little grouchy guy or girl” has everyone in a furor, trying to figure out what to do to cheer him or her up.

  1. “Did you get enough sleep, or is it coffee? Did you have enough time to get yourself ready?”

People begin to fret over this seemingly hapless soul who merely hungers to control all attention.

  1. “Are you worried about your family? Are you worried about your job? Are you worried about your health? Are you worried about your bridge club? ”

Like young parents huddling around the two-year-old trying to figure out why he’s crying, they gather—with unnatural concern.

  1. “Are there any other symptoms? Is there a runny nose involved? Do you have iron-poor, tired blood?”

And of course, the inevitable:

  1. “Are you mad at me? Did I offend you? Did I miss one of your signals that are so quietly given that it’s difficult to know what you’re attempting to communicate?”

This sets the whole room a-buzzing with overwrought mercy, making this one person more important simply because they’ve expressed a weakness.

Yes—now I remember. That was Darwin’s concept:

The Survival of the Whiniest

Let me give you a clue.

Life is like a football game.

So pad your shoulders, put “peace” in your mouth and get your head in gear.

Don’t expect the other players or the coach to nurse you to victory.

Life is this way:

Tackle it or get smeared.

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Iz and Pal (Bedouin Buddies)


Iz and Pal

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4182)

Sitting Thirty-Nine

Seeds meticulously planted weeks before suddenly came to bloom in the blazing desert sun.

For Macklin Harrisonburg was not your garden variety genius. He was an audaciously wealthy man, the founder and director of Mackie’s Ice Cream—the one with all the cavalcade of flavors.

Well, you see, Macklin opened up his newspaper one day (which he read religiously despite the current preference for receiving such international information via the computer). Peering through the paper, he came across the picture of Iz and Pal—the one taken by Matthew Bradley. Although there was nothing more than a small caption, he was deeply moved by the tender embrace of the boyhood companions. He decided to call Mr. Bradley on the phone, get details about this Middle Eastern pair, and also, in the process, offer Matthew a job.

“How would you like to make $80,000 a year taking pictures of ice cream?” posed Mr. Harrisonburg.

“Cones or sundaes?” Matthew inquired with a chortle.

“Both,” quickly retorted the billionaire.

Matthew agreed to accept the deal and join Mr. Harrisonburg at his one-hundred-twenty-two-thousand-acre ranch in Nevada. The place was big enough to apply for statehood. The ranch included five thousand head of cattle, two thousand sheep, one thousand hogs, two hundred buffalo, fifty camels, thirty llamas and one unicorn (which was really just a llama vexed with a large wart on its head).

It was from the headquarters of this ranch that Macklin Harrisonburg devised a plan. His secretary informed him that he had received a call from the editor of the local newspaper near the campsite of the boys. He returned the message and in doing so, learned more about the story, including a secret part—about the buried hand grenade.

Macklin loved to plot, so this got him thinking, which led to some chuckling, and ended up with the ice cream mogul hatching a master delight.

First, calls were made to the International Environmental Agency, telling them about the hazardous waste possibilities at the desert location. Then he contacted Armistice International, informing them of potential buried weapons. And finally, he called some friends he knew in the Israeli Army. He quickly created a coalition of allies—cooperative, willing, and determined to secure the space.

One final thing—Macklin decided it would be best if he owned the surrounding property so there wouldn’t be any furor with the locals over trespassing. Through some careful negotiation and bizarre translations, Harrisonburg purchased a kilometer of the desert in all four directions.

He wanted to do what was right—not an easy thing. Often what’s right gets in the way of what’s expedient. But he placed calls to the father of each boy, to explain his intentions, but they would not speak with him except to claim that they had no sons—since the young men birthed from their loins were in “devilish rebellion.”

He checked for additional relatives, studied local law on the custody of children, and finally, he made a personal call, to Nevada—to a little lady who had been his wife for nearly thirty-five years.

“Marguerite?” he sang. “I have found me two more boys to work our ranch and to love back to life, if you think we have room at the table.”

There was a brief delay on the other end, and then a sweet reply. “I’ll get Jose and all the boys gathered, and we’ll just begin building a bigger table.”

He laughed—the kind of laugh a man emotes when he knows he’s with a good woman and his soul is tickled by the fingers of blessing.

When Macklin arrived at the desert scene in his yellow limousine, he was immediately intimidated by the large hill. Physical exercise was rarely necessary for an ice cream executive, but he was determined, and steadied himself on the arm of a friend who walked by his side, and with a little extra oom-pah in his polka, he made it up the hill, breathing heavily, and knocked on the door of a Port-a-John.

At first there was no answer. And then, a boy’s voice crackled from inside. “Who is it?”

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Cracked 5 … September 28th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4181)

Cracked 5

Things a Traveling Rock Band Should Not Say at an Airport

A.  “Go stash your axe.”

B. “Guns and Roses.”

C. “Let’s go kill!”

D. “Where are we gonna crash?”

E.  “We bombed.”

 

 

 

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Sit Down Comedy … September 27th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4180)

Sit Down Comedy

Today I would like to use my pulpit of potential—my moment in minutia—to give tribute to the most truthful man in Washington, D.C.:

President Donald J. Trump

For certainly, there’s no way to call a man a liar who has already bragged about how much he enjoys lying.

You will never convict him of his mistruths when he let you know from the very beginning that he missed out on truth some time ago and selected a different path. Matter of fact, in his 1985 book, “Art of the Deal,” he contended (and I quote), “I play to people’s fantasies. People may not always think big themselves, but they can still get very excited by those who do. That’s why a little hyperbole never hurts.”

He has made clear what he means by “hyperbole.”

And if you aren’t sure, his consort, Kelly Ann Conway, named the practice “Alternative Facts.” Alternative Facts is merely offering a different rendition of the information provided—one that better suits your own purposes. After people hear the Alternative Facts, they begin to blend them with other reports, which eventually becomes what we call a “news story.” Then folks like us come along and pick out our favorite rendition from the buffet of possibilities.

In 2016, Donald Trump’s competitor was Hillary Clinton, who on the other hand, proclaimed herself squeaky clean.

When it was discovered she wasn’t quite as cleansed as reported, she chose to follow the philosophy of her husband, Bill, who insisted that when accusations are made against you, “always deny.”

So the God-fearing, hardworking American people were given a choice between an accomplished liar and a proficient denier.

So the situation is, for every three hundred alternative facts that President Trump may offer, there can always be found ten missteps, mistakes and misrepresentations from an opponent. The only difference is, the pronounced liar doesn’t have to repent because he’s already warned. But the one who has done the missteps—who has proclaimed him or herself pure and truthful—must decide whether to come clean or pick up a copy of “Art of the Deal” and apply his or her application of “hyperbole.”

Actually, we should be ashamed of ourselves for impeaching a man who is so obvious with us that he came down the escalator calling Mexicans rapists, explaining how simple it was to grab unwilling pussy and was fully capable of multiplying the attendance numbers at any event.

After all, Secretary Clinton continued to stand by her man—who denied his sins against the nation—placing the blame on Monica Lewinsky, a twenty-one-year-old impressionable internist crawling under his desk, trying to do her part for the country.

Who should be impeached is simple: the American voter.

Since the founding of the country, we have well known that the common person has no right, privilege or sense to select the uncommon leader of the Free World.

No intelligent corporation allows the rank and file to choose the CEO.

President of the United States is a job, not a position.

It requires a willingness to learn, savvy, personality, gentleness, intensity and above all, a passion to hear the ideas of other people and sift through them until logic emerges.

But since we are determined to extol the beauty of the vote—and then worse, place the final responsibility on the Electoral College (which is similar to a Milton Bradley board game) we are stuck with winners who are alluring instead of enduring.

I want each and every liberal to stop calling Donald Trump a liar and instead, refer to him as a “fulfiller.” He has fulfilled exactly what he set out to do, which is make himself the sole spokesman for our country.

And I want the right wing to be candid—the interest they have in Donald Trump is similar to how each and every one of us wanted to goof around with the “really bad kid” in high school, even though our parents warned us against him. But even though we appreciated goodness (kind of) but were convinced that Bad Boy was more fun.

To summarize:

God has not called Donald Trump to lead our nation.

God has not called any of the other twenty-two candidates from the Democratic Party to lead our nation.

God is not calling anyone.

God has provided science, a beautiful planet, and great human beings around us, hoping that we can use these elements to start making positive choices and value the currency of our words.

So please, stop believing that those who say they always tell the truth actually do.

And cease getting angry with a man who is comfortable in his own skin—being deceptive.

So I will close this by saying, we must cease attempting to impeach a man who thinks he is doing what he considers the best thing possible.

If you don’t want someone who shares Alternative Facts, vote him out next election.

If you’re worried that he’s going to win the country over again with his Alternative Facts, then you need to work on the conscience of your brothers and sisters instead of trying to make all the little pigs frightened of the Big Bad Wolf.

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3 Things … September 26th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4179)

That Will Always Be Hilarious

1. Making fun of your own weaknesses

 

2. Being the butt of the joke without acting like an ass

 

3. Giggling at people who can’t do the first two

 

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Drawing Attention … September 25th, 2019

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(4478)

Naturally (Week 2)

(tap the picture to see the video)

art by smarrttie pants

Music:  A Chilling

From the symphony Crystalline by Jonathan Richard Cring

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Not Long Tales … September 24th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4177)

7.

The Grass Is…

Having been married for five years and saving up the residue from paychecks, Harry and Sandy Richardson were finally able to muster the down payment, mingled with the gumption and the good fortune, to purchase their first home—not exactly what they wanted, and certainly a little more than they could afford.

Sandy worked the night shift at the local county hospital and Harry was the overnight manager at the local pencil factory.

Now, the little two-bedroom, one-bath cottage sat on 156 Carmel Street in Walakons, Washington. There was no back yard, as the home sat in front of a nearby forest, but there was a quarter acre of beautiful lawn in the front, with the prettiest green grass you’ve ever seen.

Shortly after arriving, the neighbor to the right came over with a special casserole, and the neighbor to the left soon appeared at the front door with two bottles—one of wine and one grape juice, just in case the Richardsons were teetotalers.

So Harry and Sandy settled into domesticated life, and even began to consider having a child, though the idea terrified them. They certainly knew how to make one, but not necessarily what to do once it sprouted.

Speaking of sprouting, their front grass didn’t.

Something went awry. The beautiful lawn they had purchased suddenly began sporting dry patches—ugly brown sections all over, splotching the expanse. Harry quickly ran down to the local self-help store and asked what to do. Several different nutrients, and bags of this and that were suggested, but no matter what he applied, the grass continued to die out.

Harry thought it was a good idea to go over to the neighbor to the right to ask for a suggestion, since his lawn seemed fine. He was happy to help though he had to admit he had never seen such a problem in all his living days. He explained to Harry that the best thing to do was buy a big bag of hog excrement mingled with plenty of nitrogen to enrich the soil. He further expounded that the key was to spread it over his lawn at night, so that the evening mist and dew could perform their magic. Harry was so excited that he almost hugged the man, though it was a bit too soon for familiarity of that sort.

That night, Harry and Sandy, before going to their jobs, went out and sprinkled the magic potion all over the front yard. It took about forty-five minutes. When they arrived back home the following morning and the sun rose, they prepared for a miracle.

But the patches of ever-losing grass remained the same. The only evidence of the treatment was the lingering fragrance of a hog farm in full bloom.

Then the left-hand neighbor, sympathetic to the plight of the Richardsons, stepped in, patting Harry on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, my man,” he said. “I have the answer for you. There is this grass seed you can buy which is derived from a strain from the rain forest in Brazil. You plant this in your yard, and then, just make sure that for the next two days you water the entire area in three-hour intervals.”

It sounded so promising that Harry nearly cried. (Sandy went ahead and did it for both of them.)

Once again, the pair faithfully followed the prescription offered by the left-hand neighbor, but after a week nothing improved, except that the front yard had patches of puddles, resembling a rice paddy in China.

Harry talked to a botanist. He consulted a turf and earth specialist. He listened. He studied. He scanned the Internet.

He began losing some of the sleep he needed during the day, trying to find out what to do with his deteriorating quarter-acre. Because both Harry and Sandy were so invested in the issue, they became snippy and started blaming each other. There was no basis for the attacks—it just felt good to scream at something other than the front yard.

The death of the grass continued. Then Harry and Sandy noticed that the neighbors weren’t coming around anymore. Matter of fact, they had stopped making eye contact. The normal “howdy” or “how are you?” disappeared, as right-hand neighbor and left-hand neighbor quickly turned their backs, busying themselves and avoiding all contact.

There was even the whisper of a rumor which trickled back to the Richardson household. There were those in the surrounding block who believed there might be some sort of curse on the couple, which was manifesting itself through this unnatural occurrence. Of course, most of the sane folk of Carmel Street rejected such superstition but still played it safe by not getting too close to the 156 address.

As the bickering between the Richardsons grew worse, they sought out a counselor who offered little comfort to them, except to suggest that no matter how odd it seemed, perhaps a move to another house might be in order, to salvage their nuptials.

Then one day, neighbor to the right had a knock on his door. It was Harry, informing him that he and his wife were going on a cruise to Bermuda—one of those counseling affairs, where married couples with problems could escape onboard a beautiful ship, sip Mai Tais and solve their painful struggle.

Harry also visited the neighbor to the left. He told both neighbors that while he and Sandy were away, he had hired someone to come in and do a very special treatment to the lawn, blending both right-hand neighbor’s idea and left-hand neighbor’s idea together—to see if the twain could make the lawn one.

Harry outlined to his friends that these experts would be pitching a huge tent over the entire quarter-acre to do their work and to keep the sun from interrupting the treatment. Both neighbors were fascinated and promised to keep an eye on the house but would stay away from the tent area so the blending could be truly miraculous.

So on Tuesday, Harry and Sandy put their bags in their car and headed off to the airport to escape to rediscover their marital bliss. As promised, trucks arrived, workers erected a huge tent, there were the sounds of digging, and people coming and going for the next five days. Matter of fact, the workers had to come to Neighbor Right and Neighbor Left to apologize, because they would be doing some work on the final night, and might make a little noise, which they hoped would not be an intrusion.

Exactly nine days later, Harry and Sandy returned, well-tanned and doing a lot of smiling and hugging. They went to Neighbor Right and Neighbor Left and invited them over for the unveiling of the front yard—the result of the two treatments that had been so graciously suggested.

Five workers came, and meticulously removed the tent. After about an hour of labor, they exposed the prettiest green lawn you ever saw in your life.

Neighbor Right gasped and Neighbor Left clapped his hands. The two men walked over, shook hands vigorously and patted Harry on the back. Harry returned their enthusiasm, thanking them profusely for their contributions, and standing back to admire his lawn—the evidence of a community effort.

Well, before you knew it, there were half-a-dozen other folks, who came out and stood back in wonder, peering at the green grass like they had arrived on resurrection morning, witnessing Jesus himself walking out of the grave.

Everyone was so thrilled that a block party was planned for the following Saturday night to celebrate the patch of grass that was once brown and now had “greened” before everyone’s eyes. After all the congratulations were done, the giggles were finished and the back-patting was fulfilled, everyone returned to their homes and Harry and Sandy walked into their front door.

Harry gave Sandy a big, huge, loving hug. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s hard for me to believe that I let our front yard control my affection for you.”

Sandy nodded. “Do you think it’s gonna work?” she asked Harry thoughtfully.

Harry Richardson turned and stared out his front window at his amazing lawn. “Yes,” he said. “I think it will. If our neighbors don’t ever find out that we put in really high-quality artificial turf.”

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