Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll appears this week in the guise of CURMUDGEON GRRRLL. She writes:

Even though I have been Ammo Grrrll for a couple of years now, for this week I am feeling a bit cranky and would like to be known as Curmudgeon Grrrll. And feelings – as we all know – are paramount. Especially for someone in a protected class of grievance-mongers, which, fortunately for me, includes women. In fact, call me Caitlyn Curmudgeon. Why not?

Curmudgeonery (getting wrapped around the axle about relatively minor things) is one of the sure signs you have passed from “late, late middle age” right into senior-ocity. Another sign is when you vigorously wave goodbye and slap yourself around with your triceps, but that’s for another day. To the Curmudgeon, it feels like the last vestige of The Goode Olde Days is gone and nothing has changed for the better. Not a thing. Unless you count medical advances, flat-screen televisions, smart phones, ethnic food, UPS, central air-conditioning, email, The Internet in general, Skyping, stamps you stick instead of lick, cupholders in cars and movie theatres, or Amazon. Okay, a LOT of stuff is better, but I’m still feeling cranky.

I think when the epitaph of civilization is written, that it will be traced to the day that “party” became a verb instead of a noun. This really bugged me. A party was a nice event that used to involve either balloons, cake, ice cream, and presents, or much later, adult beverages in nice glasses, canapes, and pretty clothes. I loved parties.

Now when an idiot (def.: someone much younger than me, possibly more attractive, probably tattooed) says, “Woohoo! Let’s party!” — or worse yet, “par-tay!” — he means, “Let’s drink until we throw up. That sounds fun.” Our son showed us a cable tv show in which people drank till they threw up, that’s it, the whole show, another sign of the Apocalypse.

And what’s up with all the woo-hooing, too? When did that start? An artist starts to sing a song in a live concert and the audience members scream to indicate “I recognize that song!” A television camera is turned on a crowd at a sporting event and right on cue, everyone screams. Am I the only one that finds this odd? Makes you long for the dignified guy quietly holding up the John 3:16 sign.

I don’t know which came first, but in addition to party becoming a verb, the words “evil” or “just plain wrong” also became replaced with the weasel word “inappropriate.” Long ago an acquaintance of mine got roaring drunk at a corporate gathering (she could have been on that cable show) and started throwing her food around. She was a Diversity hire, so she was not (yet) fired for this, but was counseled for “inappropriate” behavior. And, as usual, my tendency to blurt out what I think did not endear me to this (former) acquaintance. “Good Heavens, Brunhilde (not her real name). Did your supervisor happen to mention in what circumstances food-throwing would actually be ‘appropriate’? Because I would be curious.”

Calling something “wrong” is so yesterday, so judgmental. And down the slippery slope we have slid. I always think we may be at the bottom where we could find purchase to push off and lift ourselves up a bit; but there is no bottom.

My last peeve, may, indeed, be called my Pet Peeve. Anyone, stranger or friend, in my vicinity will be made aware of this peeve when the occasion arises. He will notice a small, severely-agitated woman hopping about like Rumplestiltskin and using what the movie rating people call “Language.” And that is people who are too lazy and irresponsible to return their shopping carts to a cart corral. To me, this is another sign of The End of the World As We Know It.

I swear on everything I hold dear that most carts abandoned willy-nilly in the parking lot are no more than 20 feet from the nearest corral. In many cases, closer than that. I once watched a very nicely-dressed woman in an Escalade strap her baby into its carseat and then leave the cart right there when, if she had taken it with her, there was a corral right next to the driver’s side door!! And even though the Jewish texts speak of all 613 commandments as having equal weight, I recognize that shooting someone, even in Arizona, is not an equivalent offense to cart abandonment. Plus I cannot locate the precise prohibition against Cart Abandonment in even the shadow of the penumbra of the Torah.

And let’s stipulate that it is Arizona. It’s very, very, very hot and you want to get back in an air-conditioned vehicle as quickly as possible. The asphalt is hot. The handle on the cart is hot. That is still no excuse to dump it in a Handicapped spot, for sure. Nor is it sporting to abandon yours in the only empty stall with some pitiful shade from a random twig, rendering that stall unusable without the next person having to get out of her vehicle and move the cart.

So, what, my friends, is your opinion on what is going on here? Simple laziness? Is it that a terrifying proportion of our fellow Americans are too fat and unfit to walk 20 feet? (Too much Golden Corral to walk to the cart corral?) Is it that we have a substantial coddled group of entitled people that think “Aw, someone else will pick up after me. They always have.”? Does the massive political corruption teach everyone it’s okay not to follow rules (see, Sanctuary City, illegal immigration, Solyndra and much more)?

Please put your cart in a corral. The stroke you prevent may save a beloved (or perhaps just a beliked) humor columnist. Thank you. And have a lovely weekend. I’m considerably less cranky after venting. Mr. Ammo Grrrll thanks you, too. He is dialing even as we speak to cancel his reservation at the Motel 6. They’ll have to leave the light on for somebody else.


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