There are people who scoff at how much Matlock I watch. Hah! They scoff. Well, I now have the last, er, scoff.
I just received my official Matlock legal aid degree. Hah! I scoff back. Granted it has absolutely no courtroom standing, but requires only 50 Captain Crunch box tops, and looks real impressive mounted on the wall of my office in the provided frame with the look of real wood. People who used to ignore me now seek my "professional" legal advice.
You are taught how to claim never having lost a case (one of the key Matlock tenets), especially seeing as how you never really take up what might be called a "case." The course also instructs you on how to acquire a good ole boy southern accent AND how best to dye your hair silver. You make sure the TV in the waiting room runs a loop of Matlocks and the money just pours in.
Beautiful.
The other day I heard those words dreaded by men of all ages: "Dear, would you like to go shopping with me?"
Who does this? When a guy needs a few more #8 flat head Phillips screws, he doesn't call a close friend to ask if they want to go shopping. First off, guys don't go "shopping;" they go buying. They know the store they need, the area where such parts are and poof poof, the necessary things are bought and promptly brought home.
Women? It is "shopping." It is a social occasion since you're about to wander about a store (virtually any store will do) checking everything out.
This disparity has produced that sad, emasculated class of "men" who sit in malls holding on to their wife's purses while she and her dearest friends "shop."
You will NEVER catch a curmudgeon doing anything of the sort. We prefer turning it all into a useful sport.
As you can see here, I have been obsessing over people who should be able to easily comment on any given post for the past 3 years. Turns out, my late December research paid off as I got more comments on the last week of the Repor than any other issue ever.
And as the New Yorker points out, I'm not alone.
But wait, there's more. The New Yorker illuminates the curmudgeon philosophy quite often. Frankly, as seen here, we think ALL vegetarians are idiots. It takes the New Yorker, however, to perfectly capture the sentiments of idiot vegetarians all around us. People who make ordering lunch a cringeworthy experience.
Finally, not part of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale Handbook, but admirably illustrating our métier:
All of a week ago, a bunch of us youthful type curmudgeons (recently retired, new to Medicare, etc.) declared the Curmudgeon Societé Generale dead.
To seal the deal, we mounted a ceremonial Curmudgeon Handbook book burning party. I even let them burn my own humble chapter - Trash is the Last Resort. We were on a youth-related tear, the youngest of us, at 55, reminding us what pre-retirement desk sitting resilience used to be.
Oddly, the following morning I got a visit from two esteemed former Curmudgeon Societé Generale representatives. As I seem to recall, they had convenient single syllable names that could be suitably approximated by the odd grunt. They also had a certain economy of movement, seeing as how they were unencumbered by necks.
The message was simple: publish the final few articles "in the can" and I would be permitted continued use of my extremities. And thus, "the Repor That Wouldn't Die" series has been born. Happily, Hanz and Franz can't read, so I may wander from strict Societé Generale regulations now and again.
Hey, we're young and we're passionate (mostly about our next meal, but it's a start).
