Voted or Vetoed, Wear it Proudly

If we, as responsible citizens, are proud to share our participation in the democratic process by wearing a sticker proclaiming “I voted” after committing the patriotic act, shouldn’t the President, ideally America’s most responsible citizen, be afforded the same opportunity to display his pride in his participation in the process that makes our nation work?

I think the answer is obviously yes. But how can he do this in a manner that is noticeable without being obscenely obvious? He makes speeches on policy and the state of the union. He presses flesh and at least pretends to be interested in the will of the American people. News programs tell us of his trips to visit foreign dignitaries and of their visits with him. There is coverage of White House dinners and even his personal life is the subject of public scrutiny, but all these are to be expected. These are very visible bits of his job and they are the Presidential norm. We are not at all surprised to see such things from our Commander in Chief. In fact, if we were to be deprived coverage of these activities perhaps we’d be a bit concerned that the man in the Oval Office wasn’t up to the task. I’m sure he enjoys his privacy but this is one of the sacrifices he must make and one we all expect from the highest of public servants.

So, what can he do? What is that extra little bit of outside-the-box thinking that could reassure us that our President is, in fact, working hard behind the scenes to make our country a better place to live and work and raise our children? The answer is quite simple and would resound nicely with the American people. He just needs to be given an “I vetoed” sticker to wear upon his lapel every time he exercises his patriotic right. Not only would this help him appear as nothing more than a normal citizen of the United States doing his duty it would also reassure his countrymen (and women) that there is someone behind the wheel tending to the minor corrections needed to keep the country on course that we don’t often see.

Anyway, just a thought. I might even order a roll printed and send it on up to His Electedness.

I bid you adieu and a don’t.

Adieu…keep an eye on the President’s lapel. One of these days, my little idea could be as big as cardboard coffee sleeves.

A don’t…forget that, sticker or not, there is someone in a mildly oblong office striking down, well, whatever it happens to be. Just remember, if the President won’t let it past his desk, it probably wasn’t in anyone’s best interest anyway…or at least we all hope that’s how it works.

Mean Yogurt

I think I can finally express the thought I’ve been talking about. It’s about Mean Yogurt.

DISCLAIMER: Due to the existence of the possibility that Mean Yogurt may read this, I wish to assure him this is shared in a light-hearted manner and is not intended to ridicule or belittle.

You may be curious about Mean Yogurt. You might be asking yourself Who or what is Mean Yogurt? Or, Am I really about to read this to find out? For my sake I hope the answer is yes! The tale is best told in the form you will see below.

There lives a man who fancies himself wise. He’s dubbed himself, however accidentally, Mean Yogurt. He doesn’t enjoy or even remember the title he gave himself. He pronounced it in a fit of anger. He sometimes did things that weren’t what most people would consider pleasant or civilized. His wife once tattled on him to those he considered friends and then, for some reason, tattled on herself for tattling. His face reddened, his arms flew up to hover about in the air above his head. A vein in his forehead threatened aneurysm. He screamed “Now they think I’m a meeeaaannn YOGURT!”

I use his pseudonym to protect his identity. He’s not actually a mean yogurt, but he has entertained many ideas that others may find strange. His ideas ranged from businesses to child rearing philosophies to the validity of conspiracy theories and unique housing ideas. This post will focus on the businesses. If you wish you may look forward to future posts which shall address the other aspects of his thought processes.

The first business I recall him proposing was an expired sandwich meat auctioning venture. I owned a small pickup. It was my first vehicle and I love it to this day, though it has long since been crushed into a cubeish shape. Mean Yogurt asked if I would be opposed to putting a deep freeze in the bed of the truck and wiring it to run off the battery. I expressed misgivings and hesitancy. He continued. “We’ll drive four hours to a warehouse where expired sandwich meat is stored. We have to invest enough money to purchase as much meat as will fit in the freezer. Then we’ll drive back and separate it into boxes and sell it at auction.” I made him aware that I wasn’t fond of the idea of taxing my truck’s battery so. I also postulated that, if anyone bid on our sandwich meat at all, they’d perhaps be enraged when they discovered that it was past its expiration date. He maintained that the people who would bid on sandwich meat at auctions wouldn’t care that it was expired. I found myself at a loss to do anything other than concur.

Mean Yogurt decided once that stealing telephone poles was good honest work. His business proposal included cutting the frame of an inner spring mattress in half, welding one half to the cab of his pickup to act as a shock absorber, then following the people that replace the old poles and, along with three young boys, absconding with the monstrously heavy logs. I continued to break hacksaw blades on the mattress frame until the thought passed from his head and another more noble get rich quick method took its place.

He once held a job at a factory of some sort. He didn’t involve me in this one, happily enough, because it would’ve been illegal. He quit because the getting rich wasn’t happening very quickly at all.

Mean Yogurt once attempted to purchase a golf course at a delinquent tax auction. He assigned me the task of ascertaining the cost of building a satellite and launching it into orbit. He also desired that I find a non-operational off shore oil rig. The rig, he very necessarily explained, was to keep ships from sailing through the beam his satellite would emit into the ocean water turning it into steam. He would then – through some as yet unexplained method-pipe the steam from the ocean to his golf course in Arizona, cool it to return it to its liquid state, and harvest the “ocean minerals” to sell to whomever on Earth is in the market for “ocean minerals.” The problems with this one are many, however, Mean Yogurt was oblivious. For one, I doubt ocean minerals, which I believe are mainly salts, are valuable enough to offset the cost of building and launching a satellite. Then there are the problems that arise when one considers one must keep his egregiously long pipe heated to the point that it will keep water in its vapor state from the ocean to Arizona. Perhaps he learned geography from George Strait. I didn’t bother to tell him that, as far as I know, when the water evaporates the minerals do not go with it. By way of evidence I submit the process in which rock candy is made. I do admit I could be wrong about this one, but I know I’m spot on with the other problems I’ve mentioned.

The great thinker also planned to hollow out what he termed a mountain that resided on his golf course. He wished to ranch on his golf course. He surmised that the size of his ranch would necessitate the slaughter of a cow a day just to feed the ranch hands he hired to run the place. In the event of some sort of government oppression, he and his hired men would shelter safely out of view in the hollow mountain.

Mean Yogurt proposed that if the economy collapsed, the rich would need wine. He intended to provide it for them. The fruit of choice for his libation? Banana. Apparently ‘tis a gaseous fruit. As it fermented it overwhelmed the pressure relieving measures he’d taken. Rotten banana dripped from the ceiling for days. I found it pointless to bother telling him that if the economy collapsed money would be worthless and the rich would be rendered poor. Perhaps I should tell him to befriend some farmers for the sake of his future.

I bid you adieu and a don’t.

Adieu…know that I understand how crazy this all sounds.

A don’t…for a minute believe I made up a bit of it. Disturbingly, every word is true.