The Problems That I Have

…And then there was that time when in early November we returned to our home church after an absence of several years and life subsequently presented us with new and less than wonderful opportunities we generally viewed as unfortunate.


I won’t call it luck or karma.  I don’t generally….


Oh look, I got some cream cheese on my colon.


Ok, let me offer up a moment of full transparency here.  As I compose my next Oxford comma laden, misanthropic dispatch of verbal brilliance to the  internet this morning, I’m masticating with great pleasure an “everything” bagel slathered in cream cheese.  Apparently some of the slather transferred from said bagel to my pinkie finger where it then took refuge on the home key for said digit in an act of dairy infused defiance of being included in the aforementioned mastication.


There’s something to be said for these “everything” bagels which are loaded up with all of the poppy seeds, garlic, rock salt, and discarded sunflower seed shells.


They’re delicious when toasted, slathered with defiant cream cheese, and chased with coffee flavored energy drinks.


There’s also something else to be said for these bagels.


Since they are loaded up with all sorts of flotsam and jetsam which tickle your palette, challenge you breath, and generate a false positive on a drug test, it’s hard to tell if they’ve become moldy after sitting awhile in their package.  Thus, the “everything” bagel.


Setting the breakfast menu aside, let’s return to the statement I was about to make about karma and luck and all that crap which I generally don’t believe in.


Yeah, I don’t believe in it.


I’ll take the Bob Ross approach and chalk up the significant health issue, the failed cooling fan assembly, the slapdash coding tactics behind my financial management software, the whiplash inducing car accident perpetrated upon one of my contingent beneficiaries, a leaky kitchen sink, and the perpetually itchy calves and perineum as happy little accidents which can be sufficiently addressed with a proper application of private insurance, extended warranties, creative profanity, plumbers putty (aka butt spackle), and lotion.


One of the more significant issues involved my brother who lives in Dallas.


Set aside that he lives in that hell hole.


Set aside that as a birthday present for his best friend who is a Redskins fan, he purchased tickets to go see some semblance of a display of professional football at the stadium where said hell hole’s team played the Redskins the other night.


Little brother who is a die-hard Broncos fan donned a Redskins shirt to go watch them play that other team.


Ladies and gentlemen, I promise you right here and now.  If he would have worn the home team garb that night, I would have gone all Cain to his Able, and neither of our parents would have had an issue with it.


“I’m not my brother’s keeper, especially when he wears that shit.”


Even worse is that the doosh paid $52 for three drinks.


What’s worse?


The fact that the drinks in that vomitorium cost that much, or the fact that he was willing to pay that much?  I’m still doing the long division on how many 12 packs of cherry flavored diet Dr. Pepper that would buy me.


Good Lord, man.  If you’re that thirsty, use your stadium buddy.


Anyway, that’s where we stand.  Even still, we’re going back to church tomorrow and will strive to be grateful for the problems that we have.




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.

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