Rage against the machine

If you ever feel like your teacher has it out for you, and you’re up against it – I want you to be armed with the ability to humorously get your point across.  I suppose you could take a page out of the Arlo Guthrie playbook and sing a bar or two of Alice’s Restaurant and walk out of the room.  But the Grattan girls will have no truck with public statements that square against defense of our allies and the choice of freedom over communism, so our plan will be a tad more grassroots and much more democratic.

There will come a time when you’re right, and you know you’re right – and the teacher is wrong, and pretending she doesn’t know she is wrong.  You’ve reached a stalemate.  If this ever happens to you, simply respond softly, respectfully, and almost under your breath, “No Roger, no Rerun, no rent.”  To which the teacher will reply, “I’m sorry?” With a little more volume, and just a hint of additional emphasis you say again, “No Roger.    No Rerun.    No rent.”

The teacher, confused, will be speechless – left wondering how you would know of such monumental historical movements in American history.  You’ll go on to repeat, excitedly, “NO ROGER, NO RERUN, NO RENT.” Suckers for your enthusiasm, other students – namely the liberal youth in the room that will proudly jump on any protest bandwagon that has a catchy tagline – will join in support.  Together, you exclaim, “NO ROGER, NO RERUN, NO RENT!!!”

NO ROGER, NO RERUN, NO RENT!!!

NO ROGER, NO RERUN, NO RENT!!!

NO ROGER, NO RERUN, NO RENT!!!

After-school detention is nothing to be ashamed of.  There are consequences to everything in life.  Just make sure those consequences are worthwhile.

How many Silver Alerts does a man need?

Don’t let previous blog posts or commentary about the in-laws fool you, I love old folks just as much as the next guy.  They’re like cute, lovable, excessively wrinkly babies – except they need a special lift to get into bed.

And just like kids, they wander.  I don’t mind looking for them either.  But every time I drive through New Jersey I see the same damn Silver Alert for this missing old fart.  How many times do we have to look for the same gray 1993 Pontiac before someone just hides the keys from this coffin-dodger?  I mean c’mon – it seems like each time they wrangle him and bring him back home he just jumps in his car again and heads for the Jersey Turnpike.  Stop putting out the all-points bulletin. The man likes to step out – who are we to stop him?

They have Amber Alerts for kids – no argument here.  But creepy men in vans are not scooping up geezers from playgrounds.  So can we please do without the state-wide manhunt?  I should think if this old bag made it to the century mark without incident that we could probably look the other way on his midnight joyrides.  If you must restrict him, just disconnect the battery to his car –  at least you’d find him napping with his head on the horn in the comfort of his own garage rather than in a Denny’s parking lot in Delaware.

I’ll tell you right now – if I see this guy out and about I’m pulling up next to him, rolling down the window, and shouting “rock on you old blue-hair you!”  I think four generations on God’s green earth earns you the right to take to the highway without looking back.