I know what you’re thinking. This is a blog about Steve Austin. And there you’d be partially right, you semiotician’s dream, you.
I’m not altruistic. This is all about me. If you squint just right though, it’s about you, as well.
First: a warning. If you’re sensitive to the word douchebag, this is not the blog for you today.
By why Steve Austin (no, not this Steve Austin, the other guy) and not the utterly fabulous The Bionic Woman, you may ask? Simple: the intro for The Six Million Dollar Man says what I need it to say. Don’t get me wrong, sisters. I love Jaime Sommers. It’s just that Oscar Goldman (not the mathematician, but the other guy) is speaking for me. And what with all the gender stuff going on these days, why should I restrict my blog about my latest ontologic struggle to the shape and placement of my pink parts (not those pink parts…those belong to a hyena. I mean the other bits and of course they don’t have to be pink. Mine might not even BE pink… it’s not like I’ve seen my chiro lately to even be able to contort myself down there for a peek)?
I don’t need your cisgendered fascism.
Let’s face it, The Six Million Dollar Man has a great voice over. Surely we can agree on that. Are you under 35 or over 65? You will need to watch this, first.
Intro: Six Million Dollar Man
I have had a bumpy month (yes, again. I think this is a transition year) and since July 5th, a lot has happened. Not much that I want to talk about, as such; but enough that I now fully realize that each of our days are numbered.
There are many references to our days being numbered (Book of Job, Psalms…I’ll leave you to Google this). And it’s not to bum you out, but to free you that I’m sharing this tidbit:
Life is short; but it’s longer than you think when you’re consulting for douchebags.
I thought I had cast off the last of my douchebags in 2015, but I was wrong. There remained but one, lurking, and mercifully on July 5th, we parted ways. All this led me to thinking: these past 18 months I’ve been variously ill or injured, and almost-always grumpy. Sometimes all three, simultaneously. And what for? Ill health, stress, and three pinched nerves in my neck which never seem to get better. This douchebag compromised my health, my relationships and work for other clients who are not douchebags, and most importantly: my family life. I know I know… The Douche Who Shall Not Be Named only did as much as I allowed. There you’re right. You’re bang on. Things you learn at 49. Better to learn at 49 than 50, I always say.
Oh, before I forget, this blog may seem thoughtful or dirge-like… it’s not. Don’t fret. Something caustic is coming.
Oddly enough, this aforementioned douchebag is relatively self-aware. But I am unwilling to believe people are douches, despite compelling evidence. This douche even suggested that s/h/it (easier to write it that way than to throw all the permuatative pronouns in there, right?) would be good fodder for my Devotions for Douchebags site. No no no, I said. Why? Because I have always focused on redemption. Not just for me, but for those around me. So I still hold to that, but in the meantime, indulge me whilst I purge some vitriol.
Did someone say purge? Maybe instead of douchebag, we should use the gender-inspecific term: enema. Not quite the same thing, but hey, cleans you out.
Before I purge, then, I have written my former unworthy constituent a devotion:
Kidding. S/h/it is not worth my time. Do you know how long it takes me to write those devotions?
Did I say purge? Why purge when I can rebuild? I had an idea: why not, instead of purging my vitriol, bile, and whatever other caustic (see, I told you something caustic this way comes) matter one can conjure, why not just fill myself up with probionics (yeah, I made that up)? Refill my ontological gut with happy bacteria and foster new growth? Why slash-and-burn when I can plant elsewhere?
For health, both mental and physical, I’m taking a work break for a couple of months. Which means I may actually blog more (I can dictate a blog, doncha know, save my neck for other things like tattoos). I can rebuild. I have the technology (and Dragon Naturally Speaking).
And if you know or suspect you have a douchebag in your midst, don’t slash-and-burn, fill yourself with good and flush that sucker. Oh wait, am I back to purging now? Fill yourself with good and leave no room for that dbag to wiggle in.
Let’s face it, analogies are a terrible platform for a discourse on anything other than expanding on activities I want to do with Tyrion Lannister.
It would be wrong of my to end this blog on any other bombshell than dropping in the wonderful tune Douchebags by Joe Bear.
Douchebags by Joe Bear
Oh, and that’s my long-suffering friend Paula singing back-up.
Picture of someone’s innards: (c) Can Stock Photo. Don’t be an enema (contents only), get your own canstock account.