Tag Archives: regulations

Cursive

Cursive: (adj) handwriting in flowing strokes with the letters joined together

Upon seeing the word, I immediately sat down to see if I could remember how to write in cursive.

It’s still there. I can do it.

It’s completely useless, since I’m not going to be writing a farewell from a Civil War battlefield, nor composing sonnets for Juliet.

When I learned cursive, I was told it was very important.

I want you to listen to this: I was GRADED on it. They asked me to work on it and improve it.

Was there not one mortal over the age of twenty who had enough foresight to realize that we probably would not be scribbling notes to one another in the very near future?

Doesn’t it make you suspicious of other things?

There is a litany of rules and regulations—not to mention, stipulations—that are laid on us every day and pronounced essential.

Case in point: I remember as a small child my aunt teaching me how to correctly use silverware. Honestly, I am not sure that the majority of American people in the course of one day ever touch a fork or a spoon. With our food all coming to us in packages and our hands being the most logical tools for grasping, I just can’t imagine how my aunt’s training on cutlery has proven to be magnificently beneficial.

We are lied to by liars who were lied to before us.

We are prompted by prompters who were prompted.

And we are trapped by trappers who themselves were ensnared.

What is important?

It is a question we do not dare ask. In doing so, we might offend at least half of the populace, and then, when we turn around and pose it in a different way, absolutely annoy the other fifty percent.

Whatever you may think, cursive writing was not a necessary practice, and more than likely will fail to achieve a comeback except in little cults, holding competitions for “Best Penmanship” as they listen to Mendelssohn and chomp on crumpets, sipping herbal tea.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Clerk

Clerk: (n) a person employed to take care of routine activities

I am not completely ignorant.

I do understand that rules are necessary. Without established guidelines, we have many people trying to dictate on the fly, ending up with restrictions which are much more nasty than if they had been thought of before the project began.

But I have just never wanted to be a clerk.

I’m talking about the kind of people who are thrilled there are rules so they can stand with a stony face, reciting them to you as you try to argue, and they sport a
 slight smirk over the control they have achieved.

It happens every day.

Some people are destined to be clerks. They learn the routine and find satisfaction in their lives–sensations of importance–by using the regulations to dash the hopes of those who might walk just a little bit different path.

They quote.

It doesn’t matter if they’re using Shakespeare, the Bible or the company manual–they can give you the exact wording to reinforce their decision to treat you like shit.

Every function in life, every job and every position needs to be tempered by common sense and mercy.

Even the Good Book itself started off with Ten Commandments, shrank to four during the Sermon on the Mount, two later on, and finally ended up with one commandment: love your neighbor as yourself.

For after all, if you do that one, you’re doing the other ten.

When you remove common sense and mercy from your dealings with human beings, you become the catalyst for an unnecessary argument, which can lead to a war.

I don’t want to be a clerk. It’s probably why that position is never offered to me.

Some Big Boss Billy looks me in the eyes and thinks to himself, “I can’t trust that one to be an asshole.”

 

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Clause

Clause: (n) a stipulation

Recently, I had a new grandson born. Everyone was so excited. After all, it’s a new life.

The proclamation was, “Welcome to Earth, little Julius!”

But Julius, my dear little friend, you need to read the accompanying clause. The actuary tables tell us the average person lives about seventy-seven years. Let’s
break that down:

The first eighteen of those seventy years are spent living in a house under rules and regulations, taking orders from everyone over twenty-one years of age, dabbling with all sorts of shit you shouldn’t, and confused because the front part of your brain literally has not grown in.

The next twelve years leading up to the age of thirty, you find yourself on the hunt for education, occupation and romantic elevation. There is too much experimentation, frustration and degradation involved in that process. You will often be bewildered because your original elation over obtaining your freedom has been deflated by reality.

Then you reach your thirtieth birthday–a whirlwind of messy nastiness, some of which you’re already trying to pay off in installments.

Now it’s time to have some kids of your own. You decide on two, and end up with three because someone forgot something. These three children begin the life process, impudently resenting all authority figures over the age of twenty-one, primarily you and your mate. They possess more opinions than intelligence.

You feel love but also occasionally diminished–because what you planned to do with your life has been hijacked by others telling you that you’re already old, decrepit and dead, and it’s their turn.

This takes you to about age fifty. At this point, you are greeted by doctors. They tell you that everything you’ve done in the first five decades has created some unhealthy results in your body. Probes, operations and sometimes diseases kick in to remind you of your mortality.

You suddenly find yourself carrying a pill case. You try to make it unobtrusive or even decorative, but you are now hooked on meds for the rest of your life.

This takes you to seventy. Of course, in the meantime you’ve become a full-fledged grandpa or grandma–with more little children who have found even meaner, egregious ways to ignore you. They are instructed to hug you, kiss you and send you thank-you notes including unidentifiable pictures which they’ve drawn. You learn to acquiesce and call three lines scrawled on a piece of paper “great art.”

This leaves you seven years.

You can’t walk as well anymore. You have to stop to recall your password for your Facebook account. And when you look in the mirror there seems to be the face of a troll emerging from your countenance.

The purpose of this essay is to remind us all that life comes with a clause. It’s a simple one. It’s not even in fine print.

Welcome to Earth (where you better make sure you enjoy what you do, or else what you do will take away all your joy–and that’s for sure).

 

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Board Game

Board game: (n) any game played on a board

Dictionary B

If you ever reach a point in your life when you want to terminate a friendship, and do so based upon a mutual agreement of misunderstanding, sit down and play a game of Monopoly with the person with whom you wish to sever relationship.

Monopoly is more than a board game–it is a basic study of the subtlety of human depravity.

First–no one agrees on the rules. If you insist on reading them aloud, you become the common enemy of everyone else playing the game, as they explain–or dare I say, interpret–the instructions using their prism of prejudice.

Secondly–passive, loving and kind people become aggressive, mean, sinister land barons in pursuit of receiving more and more confirmation of their superiority through “funny money.”

Third–additional addendums and amendments, if you will, of the original regulations will be introduced during the game as players negotiate deals, loans or even the transferral of properties without legitimate title and deed.

Fourth–some people just don’t give up.

And of course, Number Five–after all is said and done, there really is no winner, just someone who still has money, surrounded by vanquished losers who are plotting revenge.

The problem with board games is that we usually play them when we’re bored… only to unleash the true depths of our inner demons.

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