Taxes, Jenga Blocks and Fence Staples: More Stereotypical Cassville Behavior

I've been dealing with the fact that I will never know everything. No matter how many books I read, how many years of school I attend or how many learned people I speak with, there is no possible way to be all-knowing. The ultimate questions do not concern me, honestly. Why do we die? Where do we go when we die? Are we alone in the universe? Is Soylent Green really people? I have nothing for you there. Those questions will be answered in due time and like a Blockbuster movie, the due date is undetermined. So, I will continue to hang on to these questions, like I did a copy of Terminator 2: Judgment Day, until my time comes to know. I just hope my late fee is not too high....

No, I concern myself with other issues, usually dealing with entertainment or sports. Did Tony Soprano get whacked? How did Sophia get into the walker barn in the Walking Dead? Do UGA football players have weed magnets in their pockets during the offseason? Will Tiger ever recover from his PR nightmare? The answers to those questions are as follows:

1) I don't believe he did. A truce was called, dang it!
2) She watched The Fray sing the National Anthem and died of shame.
3) Yes. That is the only explanation, because "I didn't know it was weed" simply does not work anymore.
4) Will Georgia Tech ever be relevant? Did Florida have any fans prior to 1990? The answer is the same.

Another unanswered question that comes about this time of year, one that plagues us all.....where does my tax money actually go? I have only been paying taxes since I graduated (for the third time) in 2007, so I'm not quite as jaded as some. However, my cynicism and sarcasm make me sound like I've been paying since 1965. Oh well, I'll find someone to blame for it when I finally retire, I'm too busy working right now. Since I'm writing my check to the IRS this week, I have concocted five destinations for my hard earned money, listed in order of probability (1 being least likely, 5 being most likely):

1) A new EKG machine for a VA hospital and research grants for cancer physicians;
2) A raise for teachers, firefighters and police officers;
3) A new Ipad for an out of work, single mother of five illegitimate children;
4) A new Rascal (with a reverse beeper) for a "disabled" 350 pound man with type 2 diabetes, carpal tunnel syndrome, fibromyalgia and one of the 73 types of fake autism;
5) A new condo for Senator ____________ in the Gulf of Mexico and a down payment on his hurricane insurance premium.

I'm sorry if those last three seem harsh, but when you live amongst the stereotypical government check recipients and know young teachers who struggle to make their mortgage payment, you will develop a harsh attitude.

Anyhow, Cassville stereotypes do not yield such harshness. I find them to be endearing qualities of people that I come to appreciate more and more every single day. There were times, however, when I wanted to look at some people and say, "Really?!?" This list is brought to you by Krylon Spray Paint (saw graffiti today that said "Sweet Pea Luvs Jesus"), Exit 306 on I-75 and the "peach's" for sale there, and Red Ryder BB Guns (apparently, somebody has been naughty and shooting Cassville natives with a BB Gun this week.) News flash, fools....some of those people are carrying enough heat to reduce your Z-71 to an Isuzu PUP. I'd pick a new town.

The Guy Who Always Wants Lunch Meat Two Minutes Before Closing

When we closed the store at 8:00 PM, we always cleaned the place from front to back, side to side. Every single night, I would sweep and mop the floor with Pine Sol, wipe down the cooler doors, and of course, bleach the deli equipment. I'm not talking about a little spray and wipe, either. I declared war upon E.Coli and dropped Clorox bombs all over the meat slicer. Since the slicer was 273 years old, it was stainless steel, huge and had about 900 tiny crevices where nastiness could reside. Yours truly would clean every single bit of it. Undoubtedly, at 7:58 PM, right after I finished the last crevice, somebody would walk in and say, "Man, I hate to do this, but I need a 1/4 pound of roast beef."

Many of you are thinking, "So what? It's a 1/4 pound and you're done." Wrong. Imagine you are in college again, playing Jenga on a random Tuesday. You and the other player are getting down to the very end, it's getting tense. The game has been going on for thirty minutes and a free pizza is riding on this game. Just as you are about to make a move to seal the deal, one of your fraternity brothers bumps the table, spills a Miller High Life in your lap and sneezes on you as the Jenga blocks crumble. That's what a 7:58 roast beef order is like. The entire process must be repeated, because roast beef has internal juice that pours out of every slice like Zima at Georgia Tech on Gameday. Further, you have the black/brown outer layer of the meat that smears itself all over the slicer like a 3rd grade finger painting. So, enjoy your $2.37 worth of roast beef. I'll still be cleaning when the Mayan calendar expires.

The Guy Who Wants Me to Check the Radiator on His Smoking Car

You can hear these guys coming down Cassville Road from miles away. You know the sound, Southern people. It's the sweet rumble of a Camaro without the muffler and/or blown head gasket, the scraping of the muffler pipe on the asphalt and the choking noise of an engine with five year old oil and a rod that's about to be "thowed." ("Throwing a rod" in a car is a death sentence for said vehicle. I saw a Cassville man make this diagnosis on a Mustang in the parking lot once. Everyone standing around the car agreed and muttered something like, "sheeeyat, junk this baby and get you a Chevy!" You might as well drop a piano on the car or light it on fire...it's over.)

Of course, there is smoke billowing from under the hood. It looks like somebody started a campfire under it. Without fail, they pull the car right next to the front door, so the wonderful smell of burned oil, grinding transmission and exhaust fill the entire building. He pops the hood and the powder keg of an engine is running more ragged than the University of Arkansas's Public Relations Department. I walk out the door and the driver yells out the window, "check 'at (that) radiator and see if I need water!" Yeah, I'll get right on that. Getting my face melted off by 375 degree water was high on my "to do" list today, so thanks for coming in. You look at the car and realize that "needing water" is about the 234th thing wrong with this car. The guys on the benches are waving their arms in disgust, the smoke detector is going off in the store now and two old people want to sample the butter pecan ice cream. Dad comes out the door, with a fury usually reserved for thieves, door-to-door salesmen and tricky price guns, and verbally assaults the driver until he leaves.

The Full Service Advantage Taker

It's true, we were a full service gas station. It's true, part of our job description was pumping gas for our customers any time we were able. It's true, I actually enjoyed pumping gas, checking oil and transmission fluid for people. There's a quiet enjoyment when you're under the hood of a 1987 Chevrolet S-10, I can't really explain it. (especially when the driver's grandmother is sitting in the bed, smoking a cigarette with her iron lung propper up next to her. True story.)

Then, you have the men who always come in when we are the busiest, with a one gallon gas can for their weedeater. They sit the can next to the pump, stand there with their arms crossed and stare into the store. We are running around like ants that just realized a jelly donut fell on top of our nest. People are everywhere. This guy needs 3 pounds of sixteen penny nails and 2 pounds of fence staples, for which you need gloves because they are THE sharpest things on the face of the Earth. This lady needs two bags of sweet feed. Another guy needs a key cut for a 1989 Chevrolet Silverado (two-sided, of course). Still, the man stands there with his one gallon can. In the time it takes for me to get out there, I could have:

1) Mobilized a Marine battalion, invaded Morocco and renamed it Cassville-East;
2) Taken the SAT again;
3) Cut his grass, weedeated his driveway, eaten a Moon Pie with an RC Cola and learned Mandarin Chinese.

So, when I finish pumping the $2.15 (this was the 90's....cheap gas, tightrolled jeans, and Saved By The Bell was still on, aaahhhhh) he just sheepishly says, "Man, y'all sure are busy. Do y'all need any part time help?"

My response: "Yeah, we got this meat slicer....."

Have a great weekend!