Tag: Funny

One Man Stands Alone

~ sanebishop ~ 3 Comments

Traffic circles, or roundabouts as we call them around here, seem to be popping up everywhere in rural North Carolina. It’s like the NC DOT ran out of stoplights and stop signs, so they’ve just decided to build some circles for drivers to navigate at their own leisure. Last week, I may have set the record for most consecutive circumnavigations of a single circle. Ambush would be too strong a word, but I was definitely surprised to find a brand new traffic circle out in the the middle of nowhere, and once it in, I had to go around three or four times to make heads or tales out of the signage, which became more difficult with each subsequent pass because I started to become a little dizzy. 

Thankfully, no one else was around or going around while I was circling, so I was just a lone man driving in circles, trying to find my way in this brave new world of self-serve traffic patterns, self-serve everything. 

When Thomas fractured his arm last year, I got stuck in self-serve purgatory. I needed to get a copy of all his bills for my insurance, but his doctor’s office here no longer deals with billing, and so they gave me the number for the regional billing office. I called them and they told me I could access all his records in the client self-serve portal. Only, I couldn’t. I had already tried on my computer and on my phone and on my wife’s computer, but my entry into the portal was barred for reasons beyond anybody’s understanding–the IT department couldn’t figure it out, the billing department couldn’t figure it out. They kept ping-ponging me back and forth.  

So I went back to Thomas’s doctor’s office, prepared to begin a hunger strike if they didn’t give me a copy of his records. Do you know who figured it out? The pleasant receptionist at the front desk. Somebody in billing had entered my birthday wrong. That’s why I couldn’t get into the portal. Still, she didn’t have the power to fix it. Eventually, her boss came over and, upon hearing my tale of woe, took pity on me and broke protocol. I had literally spent hours on the phone attempting to resolve this problem, mostly on hold trying not to spontaneously combust. She printed out my bills in less than a minute. 

As a nation, we need to repent of this stupidity. Yesterday, I was in Lowe’s and was sad to see that the hostile takeover by self-serve registers was nearly complete. I am glad my wife’s Poppaw didn’t live long enough to see this current state of affairs. He used to be on a first name basis with all the cashiers at Lowes. Now, not a single old school register, manned by a cashier, remained in the main checkout area. I suppose the Lowes CEO thought their reputation for customer service couldn’t get any worse and just decided to get rid of customer service altogether. He should be wearing sackcloth. 

At the risk of sounding like I’m turning into an old curmudgeon, I’ll admit I may feel a little lost in our brave new self-serve society. At the rate society is progressing, soon the only person I’ll have left to blame is myself, and where’s the fun in that? 

Gossip and Gravy Biscuits

~ sanebishop ~ Leave a comment

There is a saying in the country, “Put on clean underwear in case you’re in a car wreck.” The idea behind this saying is that it might be embarrassing if first responders caught you wearing dirty drawers. 

I suppose the other idea implicit in this saying is that first responders are, well, are prone to gossip and might spread that tidbit of information throughout the countryside, which may be why Congress passed the HIPAA privacy law. First responders are now legally bound not to divulge information about your dirty underpants, unless you consent for them to do so–so be careful what forms you sign. 

Some first responders circumvent this law by also being farmers. It is a gray area to be sure, but it has generally been understood in this country that farmers are allowed to gossip with impunity, especially if the gossip takes place at a gas station grill in the morning, while all the farmers are strategizing and coordinating their daily movements and activities. Thus, if I ever need to know what is going on in the county, I always call one of my neighbors, Jimmy, who happens to be a first responder, farmer, and daily patron of Beam’s Country Corner, the best place for a breakfast biscuit in the whole county. Beam’s also carries 100% non-ethanol gas, so you don’t have to worry about clogging up a carburetor, though clogging an artery might still be a concern, especially if you’re fond of gravy biscuits. 

 You will always hear Jimmy, before you see him–he usually sits in the rickety booth at the back of Beam’s Country Corner, the booth closest to the coffee pot. Some farmers at Beam’s refer to Jimmy endearingly as the Mouth of the South (a throwback to Jimmy Hart, who coined the moniker as Hulk Hogan’s ring manager), but I consider that an insult since Jimmy is an important source of information beyond just a local and regional reach.

I’ve never met a man who knows as many people (their families and family histories and family secrets) or as many politicians (their benefactors and supporters and political secrets) or as many cattle (their sires and pedigrees and possibly their secrets, though cows tend to hold their cards pretty close to the vest). He knows everybody, two-legged and four-legged in the county. 

In my opinion, every community needs someone like Jimmy. For one, with phonebooks now a thing of the past, if you need a cell phone number for someone, you just call Jimmy and he will give it to you. He will also give you a treatise on that person’s life, so if you’re in a hurry, it’s better to text him. Second, if you need to know if your cows are on the loose and roaming the roadside, you can call Jimmy and he’ll confirm whether it’s your cows, plus he will give you the latest information on their movements and whereabouts. 

In short, Jimmy is an invaluable resource. Hopefully, you know someone like Jimmy, but even if you don’t, you can rest assured he knows you.

A Fair in Foul Weather

~ sanebishop ~ 10 Comments

It has been a year since Helene. The storm came up from the gulf and stalled over western North Carolina. It rained and the wind blew, harder than any of us expected. In our county, it was mostly a generational windstorm that snapped trees and downed power lines, but further west it was a biblical rainstorm, washing away life and mountainsides. We were without power for seven days, which is not a long time unless you’re a modern American without power, at which point it feels like seven years. 

One place in the county that did not lose power, or at least regained it quickly, was the Cleveland County Fair, which was ongoing at the time. While the countryside looked apocalyptic, people somehow navigated obstructed roadways and went to the fair, lots and lots of people. Having lived here now for nearly fifteen years, I believe going to the fair in late September is an innate migratory instinct for longtime residents of the county. 

The Cleveland County Fair is the largest county fair in North Carolina. It has been since its inception in 1924. I won’t bore you with the details of its illustrious history, but it is not a rinky dink carnival in a parking lot. It is a proper agricultural fair, with livestock shows and blue-ribbon pumpkins, with vinegar fries and funnel cakes and roasted corn and endless avenues of transportable and purportedly safe thrill rides–and pig races, my favorite part. It is, in short, just the place you want to be when the world around you is falling down, literally or figuratively. 

Last year, we didn’t know quite how badly the world had fallen down, or washed down the mountain. With the power out and roads impassable, reports of the cataclysmic damage further west were slow to reach us, so people did what they had been doing for generations and went to the fair, almost as an act of defiance against Mother Nature. Also, since the power was out everywhere else in the county, there was nothing better to do.

In a matter of days, our fairgrounds as well as other fairgrounds across western North Carolina would transform into staging grounds for volunteers and supplies, as the reality of the devastation came to light. There was something better to do, and the outpouring of community support that descended on our region was truly remarkable. For many, the recovery is still ongoing; for others, what was lost will never truly be recovered. 

A year later, the Cleveland County Fair is back again for its 101st year. I am happy to report that residents are once again flocking to the fairgrounds on their annual migration. No matter how foul the weather is, over us or the nation or the world itself, it’s comforting to have a fair. Here’s hoping you have a fair in your neck of the woods.

Thomas’s first trip to fair in 2022.

Farmageddon: The Old Farm Problem

~ sanebishop ~ 6 Comments

Recently, the old farm problem has reared its ugly head again. The farm problem, if you have forgotten, is the fact that farmers can’t afford to farm. This is an old problem that dates back to the beginnings of civilization, when in Mesopotamia, in 5342 B.C., the price of water buffalo dung spiked to all time highs and the flax seed market bottomed out, mostly because ancient Egypt decided to stop buying flax seed from Mesopotamia and instead started importing it from Brazil, which at the time was a burgeoning flax seed producer. 

From its infancy in the cradle of civilization, the farm problem grew and spread to other cultures and civilizations. The Hebrew culture, for instance, took a run at solving the problem by forgoing crop production and relying on manna from a distant trading partner. But after forty years, the supply of manna dried up and they had to go back to growing their own crops, so manna was only a temporary solution for the farm problem.

Eventually, the ancient Greeks took a crack at solving the farm problem. They put their best and brightest marble bust models to the conundrum. For instance, Aristotle started out by writing about agriculture, but then he soon gave up and transitioned to easier topics like metaphysics. Then the ancient Romans came along and tried to solve the farm problem by building lots of cobblestone roads, only to realize they built their roads too small for their mammoth wheat carts and potholes led to the fall of their civilization. 

Fast forward many centuries to America where, to solve the farm problem, the citizenry  enslaved others to do their farming for them, but this did very little to solve the farm problem and, in fact, led to many tangential problems. That more or less brings us to modern times when the farm problem is reawakening with a new sense of urgency. Due to rising input costs and low commodity prices, some farmers will likely be forced to sell their farms. Unless manna falls from heaven or the federal government, this will be a very bad year for the farm problem. 

Truly, I wish I knew the solution. Federal manna will likely fall, but that will not solve the farm problem. And I doubt it is as simple as eschewing all modern farming in favor of old agrarian ways, as the farm problem is as old as time. Many farmers are keeping the faith and hoping that newly installed policies will pay dividends and lead to a revival in the bread basket of America. That’s what they’ve been told at least. However, I believe, if I remember my history right, that once ancient Egypt started buying flax seed from Brazil, Mesopotamia was left holding the bag. 

Ratchet Strap Distress

~ sanebishop ~ 5 Comments

In the epic battle of man versus ratchet strap, one man stands befuddled. That described me last week when I was trying to operate a common ratchet strap. Over the years, I have had many battles with ratchet straps—rusty ones, tangled ones, and starving ones that seemed ready to chomp and swallow my fingers. But this one beat all.

“This stupid thing,” I eruditely remarked.

“Here, let me show you,” my wife interjected. No wife has ever watched her husband struggle to tame a ratchet strap and not felt the need to offer assistance. Soon man and wife will stand together, befuddled.

Ratchet straps are used to secure loads for transport. Possibly, they are used by psychologists, in experimental studies, to research and observe how men react under intense stress. I don’t remember signing up for any experimental studies, but who knows what you’re signing up for these days. Everyone, everywhere is trying to sign you up for something (for instance, if you would like, you can sign up for my free Substack newsletter, which is exactly the same as this WordPress blog).

“Can we have your email?” the clerk asked.

“Only if it helps me get out of here faster,” I responded.

So perhaps I did sign up for an experimental study as I tried to buy a few pieces of dimensional lumber—the 2 x 6s I forgot to buy earlier in the day when I was wandering through Lowes looking for an employee to guide me in my quest for a common piece of hardware. Having wasted several hours, just in trips back and forth to Lowes, I was the perfect subject for scientific research on ratchet strap distress.

In the Lowes parking lot, as I struggled to secure my 2 x 6s while ruefully lamenting all the time I had wasted—was wasting—the psychologists, observing me in secret, were probably commenting on my mental state. Likely they were hiding in the fancy duck blinds that Lowes now sells in the parking lot. Apparently, Lowes is edging into the rural lifestyle market, as evidence by these duck blinds that could also be used as second residences, or research stations for psychologists.

[Two researchers sip coffee in the duck blind and observe men securing loads in the parking lot. RESEARCHER 1 zooms in on me with her binoculars.]  

RESEARCHER 1: Judging by the color in his cheeks, which I would classify a deep burgundy, I would say this man is exhibiting extreme distress.

RESEARCHER 2: With one being a smiley face and ten the head-exploding emoji, where would you rate him on a scale of 1 to 10 in terms of ratchet strap distress?

RESEARCHER 1: He is probably at an 8 right now, considering he hasn’t yet started gesticulating. Just wait till his wife attempts to show him how to use it—he should reach 10 here shortly.

RESEARCHER 2: She just offered assistance. Wow, he vigorously declined, not even going to let her try—this is not going to end well.

RESEARCHER 1: Uh, oh, she told him to “relax.” The subject is visibly quavering—I would say the intervals between major tremors are approximately 10 seconds.

RESEARCHER 2: Judging by those spasms, shouldn’t be long till he erupts.

RESEARCHER 1: There he blows! Look how far he just flung the ratchet strap! That could be a record.

If the ratchet strap wasn’t broken before, it was now rendered inoperable, mostly because it was dangling from the top of a maple tree in a curbed island in the parking lot. In my opinion, the neon orange ratchet strap gave the homely maple an eye-catching accessory that added to the parking lot’s overall landscape design and aesthetic. Afterward, I entered Lowes for the fourth time that day and began a quest for new ratchet straps.