Cranking On Gadner

The Crank

Dear Andre,

This is a rebuttal to your posted verbal diarrhea on July 16th regarding, among other things, that child cancer patient recently in the news.  Let’s start by saying, AHHHHHHHHHHHH!  I would like to follow that point with a brief ARRRRRG! BLLLARRRRRG!  Whew.  Now I’m on a roll.  You had me for one paragraph, the first one, I loved it. Then you lost me, big time. You see, there are times when people have to be saved from themselves. Mickko comes to mind when he tries to BBQ (can you say “Fire Marshall”?).  Let’s start with that cancer kid. He is a child, and having been one, albeit many moons ago, I can tell you that a child can not make a conscious decision. I could not make a conscious decision until I started my meds in my mid-thirties. You may never make a conscious decision, based on your last paragraph.

There are many types of parents in this world, Andre, and some are better than others. I assume, or rather hope you don’t have any children, ‘cause if you do, I will need to alert the authorities. That cancer kid’s parents have him brainwashed into believing what they believe, just as my mother had me brainwashed into believing that I was actually a reincarnated gopher, who needed to stay in the yard under some leaves for the better part of my childhood.  OK, in my case it may have been a good decision, but in general it is bad form. Seriously, my mother had a rather large impact on my life (not to mention my ass). I still crap my pants when I see a large wooden spoon. What she didn’t realize was that I crapped my pants upon seeing the spoon, knowing the intense pain to follow.  Pavlov calls this Negative Reinexcrement.

So when she came up to me holding that big fucking wooden weapon in the air saying “did you just crap your pants?”, well, it was a self-fulfilling poophecy: Instant HotPocket.  I call that point my “number two.”

Stupid decisions are OK, I suppose, when you make them for yourself, but not when you are making them for a child.  She was wrong, and so are you.

Now, getting back to you, if I want to go to a bar for a beer or five, I don’t want you sitting next to me going all afterburners on me with your Lucky fucking Strikes.  Bite me.  Take it outside. It’s a stupid decision for you to smoke, but “stupider” for me to inhale your decisions, while I’m trying to kill my liver all quiet and peaceably like.

As for your next brain fart: “If I want to smoke marijuana and veg out on the couch watching psychedelic movies, let me.”  This is also problematic, in that someone has to work two jobs, probably your mother, cause you’re still living on her couch at nearly forty, I would guess, so you can “veg.” Or worse yet, it’s your wife, and she is secretly seeing a divorce lawyer. Hey, but look at the bright side, she’ll be the one who has to pay the legal fees, right?  You may do as you wish in our great society, but you must do so on your own. When you start involving others in your little “Neverland,” it becomes a problem.

Time to get off Sugar Mountain and find a friggin job. 

Welcome aboard, Andre.  Oh, and don’t go crapping your pants when you see that old Discord gorilla pic.

Yours Unruly,

Goomis

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