For F*ck Sake(s)

Some things grinding my gears

Picture this. You're walking down the street when you bump into your old pal Ernie and holler, “ALLO Ernie!”

Ernie says nothing. After a solid second of eye contact, he strolls past without acknowledging your existence.

What the hell, Big Ern? We used to romp together. What gives? Why the cold shoulder?

Why is Ernie behaving like a dingus? Maybe he was lost in la-la land or just took a beatdown at the blackjack table.

No matter the reason, if Big Ern acted like this in person, you would likely confront him for his rudeness. But when it happens over text, we tend to let it go.

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Texting is the handiest thing since unshelled pistachios.

Communication at your fingertips.

It’s like CB Radio without the static or that creepy guy at the truck stop whispering about having no panties on. (As a former professional gearjammer, I can confirm this happens more than you’d think.)

Have a quick complaint to get off your chest?

Text it.

Need to let your family know you’ll be late for the Festivus (for the rest of us) Feats of Strength Ceremony?

Text it.

Feel compelled to write a thousand-word essay to that girlfriend who left you for Steve Earle’s cousin, Herbie Earle?

Shoot her a text.

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Communicating today is so easy, but somewhere along the line, texting pushed us further apart.

We wouldn’t ignore a friend on the street, but apparently, it’s now accepted practice to ghost people as long as there’s a mobile phone between us.

It’s even worse as a salesman. When people you know know you have something to sell, they’re even more apt to ignore your texts.

Sure, that sleazeball might have a great deal for you or know how to save you a few bucks so you can live a more leisurely life. However, since you dislike being sold to, you ignore the guy.

At least have the sack to say you’re not interested.

If anything, it’ll get us to quit bugging you.

Win-win.

But some people enjoy the chase. They dig the attention, so they act like Casper or Patrick Swayze and play hard to get.

What are we in seventh grade?

For fuck sake(s).

When did it become okay to straight-up ignore people?

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I don’t care where I am or what I’m doing. If I receive a text message, I will respond within ten minutes unless I’m behind the wheel. Okay, I’ll be honest; I’m as guilty of (responsibly 😉) texting and driving as the next guy; more on this below.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a telemarketer or a Teletubby; I’m at least going to give you the satisfaction of a piss-off text.

I’m not going to ghost you.

Cmon, man.

Be a decent human and respond, even if it means telling your texter to fly a kite in a lightning storm.

Gee cripes. Grow up.

For fuck sake(s).

Stop ghosting people. That shit is for chumps.

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Speaking of texting and driving, if you’re going to do it, at least pretend to act like you’re interested in the road and the thirty-five-hundred-pound automobile your knee is operating at seventy miles an hour.

I swear to Santa, some people forget they are in charge of a large piece of moving machinery.

They’re lost in their little universe while we are on red alert, trying to run the gauntlet of distracted drivers swerving the highways like George Jones on magic mushrooms.

I’m not gonna lie to my pamphlet-reading family; I text and drive as much as the rest, but at least I try to class it up a little.

If I’m tooling down the motorway and hear the boodeloop telling me I have a message, under most circumstances, I’m probably gonna answer that sucker.

But I won’t take my eyes off the road while I type. Fifteen years of running iPhones builds some pretty solid muscle memory. I can pert near text as well on these things as I did with a Blackberry.

Plus, if I’m texting and driving, I’m doing it in a rural, remote area where I’m confident the only danger I’ll do is to myself. If I drive through Minneapolis, Monticello, or Montevideo, the phone goes to Do Not Disturb.

I’m not a monster. I scooped up a few scruples along my journey.

I put almost forty thousand miles per year on the family truckster and swear I spend more time trying to avoid semis, motorhomes, and smart cars operated by drivers learning new chicken pot pie recipes or watching motivational videos on YouTube.

I mean, I get it, Clara. Your family needs to eat, you need a recipe, and you need the motivation to get the job done.

Watch that stuff at home or when you’re pretending to be busy at the office.

For fuck sake(s), don’t put the rest of us at risk while you master your cream sauce.

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Finally, is everybody this negative, or is it only a Midwest thing? We’re in the middle of the most excellent winter since I pumped gas in a tee shirt during the great El Niño of 1999-2000.

Yet, all I hear is complaining.

You know we’re gonna pay for this later, don’t cha?

It all averages out!

Gonna be a miserable summer!

Thanks for the forecast, Al Roker.

Look, I get it. It’s a warm, sloppy winter, but we’re hauling grain in sweatshirts and recently washed trucks outdoors.

In January.

In Northern Minnesota.

Have you forgotten last winter when we spent 147 days (in a row) below thirty degrees?

You have no idea what tomorrow, April, or June will look like, so stop waiting for the next shoe to kick you in the pills.

Instead of fretting about the future, perhaps you could join us here and now and breathe the air that doesn’t frostbite your face in five minutes like it usually does on the tundra.

It could be worse; you could be blowing snow at thirty below.

Some people can suck the fun out of an amusement park with their bleak outlook.

This is a treat!

Act like it.

For fuck sake(s).

This completes this week’s rant report.

Love you miss you see you talk soon.