Don’t Take A Slice Of My Pie

Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s been awhile since I’ve done this.  Tonight’s production of tomorrow’s installment of Letters From The Past is being pre-empted.


I know you’re heart broken.


For what it’s worth, the pre-emption (is that a real word?) comes as a result of a swanky plate of vittles with members from my own little world who represent the 1%.


No further details will be offered here outside of this.


Thank the Lord for the 1%.


Without the blood, sweat, and tears of these ambitious souls who came up with a marketable product or service which could help to drive an economy, create a job, and pay a wage, we would be but mere flotsam and jetsam in the grand scheme of things.


Yeah, I know.  That metaphor was lacking.  I offer no excuse.


In other news, I suffered two very profound epiphanies today.  I know that the word “suffered” may be considered extreme, but consider this.  Without suffering, an epiphany would be just a casual realization which doesn’t garner any noteworthy response, or change in habits.


Write that down.  You may need it someday.


Epiphany number one came at about 7:45 this morning when I  found myself in a brilliant and enlightened conversation with my unindicted co-conspirators about something work related.  The arguments were well reasoned.  All of the pertinent peripheral elements impacted by whatever the hell it was we were talking about were considered and discussed.  We eventually came to a consensus and concluded the discussion.


Less than two minutes later, the new boss walked in.  He had missed hearing any of the discussion and learning anything from our discussion about whatever the hell it is that we do.  At the same time, we missed out on showing the new boss on how brilliant we are for the first 45 minutes of the day.  If we had just waited 10 minutes to start such an insightful conversation, the whole event would have proven to be a win-win for all parties involved.


Instead, the boss now wonders why his three business analysts which serve as his own combination of Seal Team Six and the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad make a go of it on a day to day basis by sharing pictures of pig snout sandwiches via instant messaging all day.


Rest assured, I’m just as upset as you are.


Epiphany number two came out of a discussion about politics I had with my Mother in Law an hour ago.  “Did you watch the debate last night?”  she asked.


“Yup.  I had the two games going on at the same time on the multi-view.”  I responded.


“You know, it’s like you said the other day.” she reflected, “Romney wasn’t our first choice, but we’ll take him over the other guy any day.”  Just for the record, Herman Cain was my first choice.


“Yup.”  I responded.  “I’ll actually root for the cowboys, before I vote for Obama.”


That’s right people.


I’ve often wondered what it would ever take for me to root for that team.  I’ve considered them battling Islamic facists, and butt-probing aliens.  Even then I wondered if the promise of the occasional prostate exam was better than rooting for the embodiment of all that is evil about the NFL.


But when it comes down to it, given the choice, I would rather post a picture of the blue star on my Facebook page, or pray on my knees smack dab in the middle of Jerry-World before voting for the ass clown who currently holds the office of President.


That’s right people.


The line has been drawn.


Kinda makes you want to reconsider that pig snout sandwich, huh?


Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

Type something witty and eye catching right here: