Some just don't know how to play with others

It’s a familiar sight, every four years. The closing of the Olympic Games, and Annie in front of the tellie having a small sob.

I amaze even myself that I can go Games after Games with the same result. A bit of a weep as the flame is extinguished, and yet the hope that we will be a gentler, kinder world with expectations of the next Games in four years to come.

This of course is despite the war in the mid-east, the fact that Russia and Georgia were midst-conflagration as the Games started, I still live in the hope that all of a sudden the World’s leaders will give themselves a collective wedgie, pull their heads out of their fundamental orifices, and realize that the majority of the people on Earth want nothing more than to live and let live, and not care what color, race, religion or politics of the people next door, just so long as they’re there for them in an emergency.

And there I stood, this very week, looking at my little car with its “09” stickers having been forcibly removed from my plates when I wasn’t looking.

Look, buddy. Not that I’m ever likely to come face to face with you, and not, quite frankly, that I ever want to, but let me give you a small piece of advice.

They’re not your tags. Get it? They’re mine. Me. Moi. Your faithful and humble servant, l’il ole me. Get your filthy cotton-pickin’ hands off my property. And, truly, I’ve said this in the nicest possible way. My darling Sir can attest to this, as I have been known to make roofers blush in their own language. You wouldn’t actually want to meet me as I would give you a damned good motherly Aussie tongue lashing the likes of which you’ve never seen before.

Sir is just a little bit tickled at all of this, me standing on my metaphorical soap box. But stand on my digs I will.

I do have to run up to that Bureau of Standing In Line Forever in the next couple of weeks as I, for the first time, have to renew my drivers license. Yes, dears, I have reached my tenth anniversary. What a milestone, I’m telling you.

So I could, while I’m up there, have a bit of an harass and with a goodly amount of whining, get my tags again for a fee, but really I’m damned if I’m going to do it. I’ve paid it once, I’m not paying again. If Missouri law makers can’t get their own collective heads out of their own fundamental orifices when it comes to licensing cars, I don’t see why I have to fund it. Cart me off to jail, go ahead.

You see, if you have a tantalizing thing on the outside of something, and it’s pickable-offable with a grimy fingernail, things are not exactly smelling like roses, now are they?

Here’s a suggestion. Put the sticky substance on the OTHER SIDE of the sticker, and let us stick it inside the windshield of our cars. I know it’s not ideal, but if a thief wants the thing, at the very least they can set off a car alarm or two trying to get it, and at best they can cut their own heads off with the shards of glass.

Which, naturally – stay with me here – brings me to moral responsibility.

There we were on Sunday enjoying a peaceful afternoon, when we both heard what sounded like a gunshot followed by a lot of crackling.

Our patio door had been shattered by an errant golf ball, hadn’t it.

So we waited for the playful golfer as he emerged over the rise in his cart. Striding towards us, we were greeted not with an “I’m so sorry,” or “oh bugger,” but:

“State law says if you live on a golf course, it’s your problem if a window’s broken. I’m not paying for it.”

Well. Good afternoon, stranger.

Lovely to see you, hope you’re having a fabbo game of golf.

To say I was a little taken aback would be just a tiny understatement.

“What about responsibility, what about morals,” we asked simultaneously.

Well on it went till it was obvious this man had the moral fiber of a weevil, not to mention the fact that he strode somewhat menacingly towards us to actually retrieve his golf ball.

Well, excuse the hell out of me.

Joe? You know who you are, you who apparently are in the “refurb” business. Well, refurb this bucko. We will sleep straight in bed tonight, with the fervent hopes you won’t. We’re out $1,000 sweetheart. Sleep tight.

Sir reached a good buddy of his from Heartland Windows – Hi Dave! Thanks for rescuing us – on this Sunday afternoon. He arrived with brother Dan to look after us right royally.

But I did love it.  We briefly discussed the morality of this country, but then the conversation got serious.

“Jeez. Did you see how he would have had to have shanked that ball from the tee box? He can obviously hit it a mile, but he needs work on his direction, doesn’t he?”

So Joe, suck it up. Be a man. You have a moral duty to stand up and face the consequences of your actions.

Learn to hit the ball better if you’re not going to pay for your crappy shots.