Today’s Tirade: Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give a Damn!

Rest in Turmoil

Not trying to be insensitive, but I am! Sorry…, no I’m not. My lifetime experiences made me that way. It’s really not my fault.

Goes back to when I was a kid. I used to be sensitive, but learned it only caused great heartache; so I turned it off.

I am a rock. I am an island. I’ve gotten to the point of not giving a damn anymore. Actually, I reached that phase a long time ago.

Why, then, do things always bother me? Little things, insignificant things, things that shouldn’t make me feel so angry deep inside.

Like, why does everyone use the phrase, “Rest in Peace”? How else is someone who died going to repose: by resting in turmoil, spinning around in their grave?

Why not just write, “My sincere condolences go to those who are close to the deceased”? Or, maybe a person could even say, “I’m sorry to see one of my heroes has just died.”

An acquaintance once said, “How come people get so upset about somebody famous who just passed away; someone they never met, nor personally had ever any dealings with?”

Yet, I read posts on Social Media from the same individual, saying, “What a bummer, So-and-So just died. Rest in peace,” whenever it suits their list of celebrity heroes.

Seems like everyone on Twitter or Facebook likes to be the Angel of Death by heralding someone’s untimely demise, looking for likes, shares and/or retweets.

And they all get them, except for me when I send out my condolences, or sorrow for someone whom I feel was significant in my life had just crossed over to the other side.

Enough about death. Who really wants to read about it other than those who take great pleasure in producing their own messages of doom and gloom?

Bring back the days when everything didn’t rely on a lithium battery to be functional. Now I’m really treading on sacred ground.

Although, I was brought up with transistor radios and such, needing 9-volt, double- or triple-A batteries to run the damned things.

How about flashlights when they used only D cells until the penlight came along? That’s really dating this old fart.

I bought a new landline phone recently. What? Still using a landline? Yup. Can’t fax over a cell-phone or digital line unfortunately. Need analog for faxing business transactions.

Hooked up the new phone only to be made aware that a couple of double-A batteries were needed for the caller-ID to work.

Got the phone for that expressed purpose. My old one didn’t have a caller-ID. Not only does the new one need batteries, but the caller-ID service has to be activated by Verizon.

That’s at an extra charge, by the way. So needless to say, I have skipped using the batteries and the identification function from the phone company.

At least the phone itself works without needing batteries, having a self-contained electrical system in the phone line.

On my cell, if I don’t recognize a phone number, I don’t answer it. That’s what I was hoping to do with the landline, but no cigar.

Whenever a telemarketer calls, I just say, “No thanks, not interested,” and immediately hang up on them. They never call back.

This week’s literary experiment dealt with writing my tirade in two-line verse, even though it didn’t rhyme, sort of like free-form poetry, if you will.

For my latest cover, allow me to present, “Brain Stew,” a song written by Green Day about insomnia. Don’t know why I bother though.

No one seems to appreciate my musical attempts anyway; but as mentioned earlier, I really don’t give a damn. They’re fun to do and I like them.

Thanks for stopping in and reading this long-winded diatribe; and, as always, thank you for your continued support. Have a great rest of the weekend.

About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at
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