Tom’s Law #42
Want to know who’s really in charge? Wait for the shit to go down and just watch.
Every year or so the stories briefly get featured on the evening news like a blip on a gloomy green radar screen then are as quickly forgotten. Until the next study is released or, worse, some human bodies are asploded. Now that’s news.
Think of a list of professions where you’d really like people to be fully rested and alert. Airline pilots? Air traffic control? Doctors? Truck drivers?
Nice list. Congratulations. You just came up with a list of people that we fuck the most. Logical, right?
This week, again, the issue of employee fatigue was in the news. The FAA commissioned a study on air traffic controller fatigue. The results are none too surprising. Then the government fought for four years to keep the findings secret.
“Psst. Hey dude. I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse. You pay top dollar for me to conduct a study about how I’m fucking you over. Then I keep the results secret from you. Sounds like fun, right?”
What could possibly be going on here? Luckily I got a good night’s sleep.
Tippy Toe: Life’s Ruinous Moments
Sometimes what starts out as a perfect and beautiful day full of optimism and hope can take a turn for the worse. Sometimes it only takes a few scant seconds.
I woke up first. Stealthily I slipped out of the covers like a ninja lynx. I tiptoed across the room. My wife was zonked and she needed to sleep in. With God as my witness I vowed to do my part.
On the bedroom doorknob hung the finest shirt that I owned. I have this annoying habit of putting shirts on knobs rather than hanging them up. It drives my wife nuts. I had worn it to a funeral the day before. My Sunday best consists of a black short-sleeved button-up shirt, the only blue jeans I own without holes in the knees, white socks and a pair of sneakers. Yep, that’s as good as it gets.
I wanted to keep noise out of the bedroom but I couldn’t close the door all the way because of the cats. They show great magic at doors that are closed to them and that would undoubtedly wake her up. So I gently nudged the door so it was mostly closed to help keep out light and noise.
In a good mood, I then proceeded to start my day. Little did I know it was already too late. The berg had already been struck. I just didn’t know it yet.
A few seconds later and my wife was up. What the hell?!
“What are you doing awake, my Queen?” I politely inquired.
“The cats were in the bedroom and they couldn’t get out.”
“But I left the door cracked just so that wouldn’t happen, my love.”
“Your goddamned shirt was in the way. They couldn’t get out.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s not all,” she added.
I was filled with dread.
“They shredded your shirt.”
And, sometimes, that’s all it takes. Get out of bed and the hammer of life comes down hard and bone-crushingly shatters you, your dreams and even your shirt.
I looked at my watch. I’d been awake for 42 seconds.
We recently renewed the contract for another year on the house we rent. We politely inquired directly with the owner about cutting the property management company out of the deal because they’re stark raving assholes and don’t do jack shit, but she said no. I figured it would have been a good deal for her since she wouldn’t have to pay them for doing nothing.
They only handled one issue from us all year and that was a broken 35-year-old hot water heater. In our defense we do need hot water several times a year.
The owner felt she “didn’t have time” to manage the property herself. Eh? Wazzup?
Then the other night came a very alarming sequence of events.
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It’s late. So late that it’s already dark out. I’m sleepy from sitting in front of the TV for six solid hours under a blankie and shoveling down an entire container of ice cream. Like a zombie I stumble to my feet and stagger towards the bedroom.
“Need… sleep… now…”
No one ever claimed that eloquence is my strong suit.
Finally I reach the doorway and lean against it for support. Must rest. Almost there. Stay on target. Stay on target.
Then I glance at the bed. The covers are completely gone. Nothing but a naked mattress and box springs await. And that’s not exactly the type of naked I had in mind.
Shut up, kid. It’s not like Obi Wan just got bisected with a lightsaber.
“They got washed. The rebel dryer containing clean bedding will be in range in 15 minutes.”
“But I wanted to sleep now!!!”
Why do sheets have to be clean? For that matter, why do we have to sheets at all?
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Scream Within A Dream
Dimly I slowly become aware that I’m no longer asleep. When did that happen? I’m not really sure. My eyes become imperceptible slits just enough to perceive a bit of the world external to my body. That level of activity in my eyeballs takes an amazing amount of effort. Holy shit it’s dark. I suddenly realize I am curious. The burning question in my mind is obvious: What time is it? I pierce through an entirely new level of consciousness and become aware my body is in the wrong position if I ever hope to see the clock. What an incredible perception on my part. Some time later I realize this means I’m going to have to physically move if I’m ever going to obtain an answer to my question. Continue reading →
School’s In For Bummer
Greetings and solicitations!
It used to be that the school year was a happy time. A time when the junior-sized asshole humans were (mostly) out from underfoot. Ahhhh. Those were the days.
You can blame it all on politics and unions and Tea Parties and partisanship and vouchers and hog wallerin’ and mud slingin’ and clean campaigns and dirty campaigns and COLA and inflation and school boards and lots, lots more.
Is an army of darkness one of the seven seals of Armageddon? Or maybe it was a vial? I can never keep those things straight.
Make no mistake. Let me be clear. War has been declared. And war is Hell. Tranquility has been attacked and tranquility will be defended. Even if I have to asplode.
If you want to enlist, make the jump.
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What Screams May Come
Fool me once? Shame on you.
Fool me twice? Shame on me.
Fool me thrice? Satan’s tongue is licking my brain.
What? Don’t worry. I’m past the point of making sense.
I’d like to meet the person who came up with the 4-hour schedule for taking meds. (That’s the medical word for pills.) I’ll bet the sadistic bastard was a doctor. Yeah. It had to be a doctor.
8 o’clock. 12 o’clock. 4 o’clock. Rinse. Repeat.
It’s only six little (well, actually giant) pills every 24 hours. That doesn’t sound so bad.
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