When Worse Comes to Shove

Once upon a while I get to thinking that maybe this column might be catching on. Last month, for example, I wrote about my neighbor's miserable dogs and two days after the paper came out someone let the air out of my tires. Yes! I suppose most people would react to such a thing with anger or concern, but having been at this humor gig for about 12 years with scarcely a pat on the back to show for it, I found the flats somewhat gratifying. I guess I could have been sore, but I decided hey, this is about somebody reading my article and taking the trouble to express their opinion. This could be a good thing? Still, the second I suggest that we go out for a treat in celebration of my newfound fame, Bam - down comes the rain on my pathetic little parade. "It's just a coincidence, Dad - you probably just ran over some nails or something." It's no wonder our economy's in the dumper - buncha Debbie Downers. Go poop on your 'own' party.

So I went to Swig all by myself, the whole time believing that there's someone out there who reads this column and thinks I suck badly enough to care. And y'know what - I'm gonna go ‘right on' believing that. If I could just make one small request of those of you who might wish to visit some small misdeed upon the Boneman for his reckless words (or for referring to himself in the third person), please just leave my car out of it. As I've mentioned many times before, I'm profoundly challenged in all matters mechanical and automotive. You could find a sack of 'dirt' clods with more savvy under the hood. What I'm getting at here, is that disabling my car is a bit of a low-blow. I get that you've got a beef and, for good reason, I'm sure - but let's try and keep the gloves up, huh?

Interestingly, as it turned out the whole caper was just getting started. The day after the air mysteriously vanished from my Michelins, the Mrs. called me at work to report in whispered tones of excitement that the "enforcement arm of the Humane Society" had rolled up at the neighbor's door. "My oh my, the plot thickens. As my wife continued her report, I found myself drifting off, seduced to wander along dusty, long-abandoned corridors of my ego, "could it be . . . am I ‘that' famous? Is it possible? I'd be perfect for one of those "reality shows" right? If I can blow the ‘whistle' on the puppy mill next door, maybe I could become . . . the "Dog Whistler." It wasn't long before my wife yanked me back down to earth, God bless her – she knows what's good for me.

That evening as I returned home I was greeted by the rare and almost unrecognizable sound of silence. Let me tell ya, wherever those dog-gone dogs had gone they took their miserable mutt-music with them. It was almost too good to be true. Indeed the very next day I'd popped home for a quiet lunch only to encounter the neighbs right out in the driveway. Truly a rare sighting. We exchanged the bare minimum of pleasantries, taking each others measure, I guess you could say. Decent enough folks, to be sure, they certainly seemed to be happy. That can't be good. Something about that smile, that 'knowing' smile . . . and then the dread began to creep into my heart. As you may well have surmised, upon entering my house I was once again greeted by the all-too-familiar yippity yap of the diminutive "twins of din." "They're back! NO! no . . . crap!" I don't know why this should have surprised me, like the doggy do-gooders were gonna fall in love with "Siren and Barkfunkel." Then I heard the haunting refrain: "Hello barkness my old friend . . . I've come to bark at you again." So much for the "Sound of Silence."

If nothing else this episode impressed upon me the fact that since I've got myself a "bully-pulpit" of whatever magnitude, maybe I ought to be writing about something a little more important than my neighbor's dogs. Because it just so happens that I know exactly what went wrong with our country and I suppose it's time I shared this insight with the citizens of southern Utah and those of you tuning in via the world wide web (I understand their names are Joyce and Larry). And please allow me to preface these remarks with the sobering preamble that there's nothing anyone can do to save us - not even if they happened to have their own helicopter.

Over the course of the past several years with so many good folks losing their homes and their jobs and their retirement savings, you'd have to figure that it wouldn't be long until a goodly number of us started losing our minds. All we ever hear about on the news is how crappy everything is and that it's not going to be getting any "less crappy" any time soon. It's my theory that constantly being bombarded with such demoralizing information has made Americans completely unable to see anything beyond their financial problems. All of which has brought about a frightening new condition or syndrome that the medical specialists have dubbed "Economyopia." Econo: Money – Myopia: Nearsighted. In point of fact we've become blinded by our own financial problems. Economyopia can strike at any time, with little or no warning and literally with the speed of a cobra - instantly turning the most easy-going and generous individual into a squeaking tightwad. I'm sad to report that Economyopia has already reared it's head in my very own home. My wife, for example, has already fallen prey to this baffling nightmare of a disease.

Everything can be going along just fine, "la dee da," then BOOM it strikes. "Hey honey—I think I might be getting famous, whaddaya say we round up the kids and go out for dinner and a movie," I'll innocently suggest. "What? Go where? Are you some kind of freakin' imbecile? (this is the disease talking). "Have you looked at the checkbook, lately? Can you say fi-nan-cial ruin. I hope you like Top Raman, there Mr. Breadwinner, 'cause that's what's for dinner. And as for the movies – just look at all these DVDs we've got - boy-o-boy. What-say we stay home and watch the Lion King and pretend everything is just ‘ Hakuna Matata?." (This is where she goes into her crazy jungle dance.) "Hakuna Matata? we got all kinds of Nada. Hell, our kids are way too hung up on food and shelter, anyway. How will they ever appreciate the value of a buck if they've always got this fancy roof over their head? And whatever you do, don't feel guilty about that new CD you bought. Hell, we'll crank it up and listen to it while we're out foraging in the woods for breakfast. 'Rock and Roll—wheeooo!'"

It's my belief that to some extent Economyopia has been around for years and tends to reach epidemic proportions any time the economy happens to take a dump. Maybe some of you remember the days of Jimmy Carter and the "Energy Crisis?" There might not have been much gas to go around, but there was no shortage of crazy. "Excuse me, what did you say pal--you want a bicycle for your birthday? No problem, I'll just get a night job and your mother can take in laundry. That way you can peddle your happy little ass around the neighborhood without a care in the world! How about that Evel Kneivel? When I was a boy, nobody had a bicycle. There was only two hundred and twenty seven dollars in the whole damn country. The only kid who had a bike when I was your age, made it himself out of sheep bones and rebar. Unfortunately for him, it didn't go very fast, which is why he got run over by a tractor. Is that what you want, Birthday boy? You want to fertilize the soil--would that make you happy, Easy Rider?"