What are you supposed to be?
I don't particullary like Halloween. It's defintely not the favorite holiday. Halloween, in my opinion, is for kids. Adults dressing up in costume, some going door-to-door for candy, doesn't cut it. It's like grow up, people. Grow up.
Okay, okay, give me a ration of shit about my thinking. Do I care? Nope. Do I want to hear your grief that I'm wrong? Nope again. So don't even think about posting your rationale on why it's okay for adults to act like kids on Halloween because I'm not buying any of it. If you want to dress up and be a kid every October 31st that's you're deal. You have to live with yourself and I don't.
For some adults Halloween is like year round: They're always in costume. I often want to approach a person wearing strange garb and say, "What are yuo supposed to be?" Of course they'll say, "Huh? What do you mean what am I supposed to be?"
LIke these people begging on the streets, holding signs, looking forlorn and forgotten, dressed in all sorts of clothing . . . that's really when I want to ask, "What are you supposed to be?" I really want to say, get a fucking job, you idiots! There's work out there. It may take some effort to find work but get a fucking job, you idiots! No sympathy. And you're not getting a nickle from Bob. Why hand out hard earned money to those who are too lazy to find work let alone punch in from 8 to 5.
There's one guy who doesn't have a job that I often see that I'd like to comment on. I drive 10 miles to the marina and then 10 miles back home every other day. Alongside the road, sitting on the ground and against a mile marker is this one guy. The dude is always there. He's holding a small sign that's nearly impossible to read as you pass at 60 miles an hour. He's usually asleep.
I want to stop and talk to him. "What are you supposed to be?", I'd ask. But I'd really stop to read what the hell it is on his sign that I can't read at 60 miles an hour. I'd say, "Man, sitting here is all about marketing. You got to get a better sign. One we can al read as we approach you at 60 miles an hour. How the hell do you expect anyone to stop? Market yourself dude, market yourself." But I' really say, "Get a fucking job, you idiot! Wasting your life away alongside a highway is like nowhere, dude!"
Dude? That brings up another thought. When you're greeted at a checkout counter in a store what does the clerk call you? Most of the time it's "sir". Once in a while it's "dude". That makes me smile. I say back, "Duuuude!" to the clerk. If I'm with Wifey we're often greeted as being "you guys". "How are you guys today?" Wifey takes offense to that. She defintely feels that she is not in the guy category. She usually comes back with, "You guys? I'm not a guy."
Enough of Bob's thoughts on life. Happy Tuesday.