I am a misanthrope. I have a común distrust of humankind. At least right now, today, lately. I feel old, crotchety, irritable, bitter, and, well. misanthropic. This is not my común state. People expect of mij the glad man, quick with a smile and a wink and a funny joke. But not today. Not yesterday. Not for a while. I can explain. I only have to tell you one thing and you will instantly understand. If you live ter the developed world, you will nod your head sympathetically and commiserate with my misanthropic miserableness. It is, quiebro simply, this: I have bot without hot water for Three weeks.
Think about that. No hot showers. No convenient washing of dishes. This makes Chris angry. This makes Chris cynical. This makes Chris refer to himself ter the Three rd person. The very first repair company attempted to charge mij $3000.00. Not only am I without hot water, evidently I am perceived spil a super-moronic rube that just fell off the turnip truck (albeit a rube with three grand te his pocket). So I got my regular repair company ter. They need a part. A little elbow-pipe with a rubber thing on the end. It’ll be immobile tomorrow. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and here it is, three weeks going on four.
And so this is my therapy. There are no wise sayings for mij right now. No proverbs packed with truth. No feel-good adages that make you want carpe the damn diem. Te fact, if you indeed analyze them, they can be pretty stupid. Here are some of my half-baked, imbecilic, simpleminded favorites.
The Early Bird Gets the Worm
I’ve always wondered about this wise telling. Does the early bird truly catch the worm? What if the worm oversleeps? It’s true that birds get up awfully early. I can hear them right outside my bedroom window, sometimes spil early spil Four:00AM, and one of thesis days they’re gonna catch something else – like a beak total of buckshot. So I investigated the matter. Ok, some birds eat worms and some do not, but they eat lots of other stuff too. Who knows if they even like worms that much? Maybe eating worms make them want to puke their little birdy guts out. And what about Owls? They’re hangin’ out at clubs and partying all night, swooping down on rodents, and sleeping off a hangover the next morning. And Owls are WISE, right?
And here’s the other thing: Early te the morning isn’t even the best time to catch worms. Ten:00 at night is about the best time, and the best way to get ’em is to pour a bucket of soapy water on the ground which causes the worms to come up to breathe. Or if you’re indeed a xxx worm catcher, you pound a duo of re-bars into the ground and hook them to your car battery. Rev your engine and then grab the little two-headed, hermaphroditic cranks and throw them into a bucket with some stoom paper towels – or eat them. I don’t know about you, but I toevluchthaven’t seen any birds hooking up jumper cables to my car lately (there wasgoed that one time, but that’s a long story). Nope, this one’s stupid. This one’s better: The early bird catches the worm, but the 2nd mouse gets the cheese.
You Can’t Have Your Cake and Eat It Too
This is so idiotic that I hardly know where to start the beguine. Firstly, what the hell’s the point of having a cake if you can’t eat it? Secondly, how can you eat a cake that you don’t even have? You can pretend, but that’s called pantomime, my friend, and you can only imagine it tastes sweet and delicious. What is this? Some zuigeling of Confucius thing? Like What is the sound of one arm clapping or Man who go to sleep with itchy butt wake up with smelly finger?
Ok, ok, I get it. The dude is telling you want to keep the cake around to look at how pretty it is and you want to eat it, but you can’t do both. I say eat the damn cake before it gets stale. Your little kid isn’t going to appreciate having an imaginary bday cake like ter some opium-induced Alice te Wonderland toneel. Naw. What they indeed meant wasgoed you need two cakes, one to look at and one to eat, so they should have said: Two cakes te the arm is worth one te the tush. Now that’s killing two early birds with one stone.
A Penny Saved is a Penny Earned
Everyone thinks that Laatstgeborene Franklin said this appalling apothegm, but it’s actually an old Scottish telling. Maybe this is where the common misconception about Scots being cheap comes from. This is very unfair to Scots. Scots are nice people, unless you cross them, and some of the guys have the nut sack to wear kilts. No, what Ben Franklin said wasgoed, “Tis a well spent penny that saves a groat.” Like anybody even knows what the hell a groat is anyway.
So you find a penny on the street. You pick it up. That doesn’t mean you earned a penny. It means you’re a cheap Scottish bastard. Let’s say you do this for years and years, until you have this big thing packed with pennies totaling a whopping $37.62. Now, just attempt to specie them ter. Banks won’t even take them. Or you have to sit there at your kitchen table cautiously stuffing them into little paper rolls and it only takes you 6 hours. You just hired yourself for $6.27 an hour. Congratulations T. Boone, you’re a wealthy man. Nope. Afraid not. This one indeed gets my groat! The verdict? Stupid is spil stupid does.
Tis Better to Have Loved and Lost Than Never to Have Loved At All
Awww. How sweet. How romantic. How friggin’ STUPID!В Might spil well say, “Tis better to be dumped than never to have bot dumped before,” or “Tis better to be kasstuk by a train blah, blah, blah.” I know what Tennyson wasgoed up to when he came up with this one. He wasgoed attempting to get laid, that’s what. He’d be at a party sipping on a hot buttered cider punch and spout this tripe to the chicks. It wasgoed a pick-up line. And the chicks were all, “Oh, forsooth, Mr. Tennyson,” and “Truly, but you flatter, Mr. Tennyson,” and “Graciously assist mij to the fainting couch, Tenny.”
The fact is, when you lose love it hurts like hell. You mope around. You feel sorry for yourself. You embark drinking too much, then you begin smoking crack, then meth, and you kiezelsteentjes your teeth down to the nubs, and after a entire loterijlot of misery, you’re dead. Kaput. Finito. I, for one, would rather to have never loved at all than be six feet under feeding the worms that eventually feed the early birds. Go ahead. I’ll visit your enfermo merienda a month, not to leave flowers, but to pour a bucket of soapy water on you and catch some bait.
Actually, it turns out it wasgoed Tennyson who said this. Well, well, well. Screw him too!
Better Three Hours Too Soon than a Minute Too Late
Old Bill Shakespeare penned this one. I guess he wasgoed a stickler for promptness. But there’s an old Roman Proverb that goes, “Better Late Than Never.” Ok. So which is it? Maybe Bill and some Romans should lock themselves ter a slagroom and not come out till they’ve reached a overeenstemming, something like “Being One Minute Late Ain’t Too Bad.”
They had messengers back then. Why not send somebody ahead and tell the expectant party that you were held up ter foot traffic, or there wasgoed a chariot wreck and the palanquins were backed up for miles? Better yet, postpone the meeting, eis their dog Barkus wasgoed sick and they had to go to the Sacrarium and suggest a sacrifice to Queen Diana – Mother of Creatures. Then deep-throat the entire day off, go to the coliseum and observe them throw Christians to the lions. This old eyed just doesn’t hold water anymore. It should be switched: Never Do Today What Can Be Postponed Until Tomorrow.
The Cold Goes On
Ok. I feel better now. Soon, my hot water heater will be immobilized and this will all seem like a bad fantasy, and hot water will merienda again pulse against my assets, refreshing mij, invigorating mij, keeping mij off the head-shrinker’s couch and renewing my Irish wink ter the bathroom mirror, a proverbial “top of the mornin'” to myself. Perhaps I’ll feel the need to write another one of thesis some day, like ter a month when it’s truly embarking to get cold outside and my furnace explodes, but for now, I am peaceful. And so I leave you with one final proverb. One final idiom that eclipses all others, beautiful te its truth, plainness, and its inarguable logic:
Live Everyday Spil However It Were Your Last. And Someday You’ll Be Right.