Monday, August 9, 2010

Shaving as Therapy

I've taken to "retro-shaving" outside on our deck, weather and time permitting. I use an old-fashioned badger-hair brush, a straight razor for the easy parts, and a WWII double-edged razor for the difficult parts. The outdoor lighting is perfect. The deck overlooks the beehives, I watch their comings and goings while I work up a lather. I bring along a suppressed .22 in order to pick off the chipmunks raiding our garden. (I usually get at least one, and the rifle's stock has become stained by repeated applications of shaving cream.) Ajax the Great Dane watches me intently. Liz brings me a cup of coffee and inspects.

If shaving outdoors with a straight razor and a wet badger, a big dog, bees, a rifle and a fancy redhead who anticipates your needs isn't manly, I don't know what is.

Politically Correct Insanity

Just returned from a week of Cub Scout camp with my stepson. Never again.

The camp director looked like Jabba the Hutt with huge bugger-grip sideburns. I figure he likes the job because the only respect he'll ever get is from little kids who don't know better.

Most of the counselors were pimply-faced nerds on power trips. About half of them still hadn't come to terms with being gay. Their primary job was shouting "NO RUNNING!" all day, every day. That's right, running was not allowed. I'd like to meet whoever it was that decided it was both advisable and possible to keep hundreds of adolescent boys from running for a week.

Adult leaders had to sign a paper acknowledging affiliation with some religion. Any religion. The Cub Scouts are non-denominational now, which is a step in the right direction, but leaders are still required to believe in some deity. Think about that for a minute. They don't care which invisible friend you have, but you're required to have one. I wrote down "Dogist", hoping someone would ask me what it was so I could say "If I can't eat it or hump it, I piss on it".

The boys were constantly preached to about being green and respecting the earth. Yet every meal was served on styrofoam plates with plastic utensils and glasses.

We weren't allowed to strike matches. We could get the campfires ready, but only the pimply-faced gay Hitler Youths had the authority to light them.

No touching was allowed unless you were administering first aid. Some bimbo screamed at me for picking up a little hoodlum who was kicking another. She told me to apologize to him. When I declined she began shrieking "I AM ALPHA! I AM ALPHA! YOU WILL APOLOGIZE! DO NOT CONDESCEND TO ME OR YOU WILL BE TALKING TO THE CAMP DIRECTOR IN HIS TENT!" I am not making this up. I just walked away. She later got into a no-kidding catfight with another den mother. The boys were upset and crying afterwards. I explained to them that chicks are crazy and they might as well learn it now.

I confidently predict that most of the twenty boys in our pack will eventually be staunch Democrats because there's no logic in them and they feel entitled to handouts. We certainly didn't do anything to encourage self-reliance. Five will someday weigh over 300 pounds. One will never make it past working at McDonald's. Three will end up in prison. Actual conversation with one of them:


Me: "This isn't a restaurant. Eat what's on your plate, or don't eat it."

Spoiled Little Bastard: "I WANT TO GO HOME!"

Me: "I want you to go home, too."