Anthony Kiedis cannot sing.
The art of substitute teaching is an easy one to learn; I took a 3-day course that basically consisted of the repeated plea, “Don’t touch the kids. Please, don’t touch the kids. They’re kids, for God’s sake, don’t touch them. Why would you want to touch the kids, you pervert?” Apparently that’s considered extensive screening for pedophiles.
I substitute teach occasionally.
Considering the axiom “Familiarity breeds contempt” is as true as “Water is wet,” I don’t often mention this part-time job of mine, if only because every goddamn comic in Los Angeles seems to be a sub, and it’s in each and every one of their goddamn acts.
Do you know the story about the Zen master and the little boy? There was a little boy, and on his 14th birthday he gets a horse. And everybody in the village says, “How wonderful! The boy got a horse.” And the Zen master says, “We’ll see.” Two years later, the boy falls off the horse, breaks his leg. And everybody in the village says, “How terrible!” And the Zen master says, “We’ll see.” Then a war breaks out, and all the young men have to go off and fight, except the boy can’t ’cause his leg’s all messed up, and everybody in the village says, “How wonderful!” And the Zen master says, “We’ll see…”
~Charlie Wilson’s War
There are probably 1,000,0001 reasons I could never be a farmer, but the story I got to hear multiple times yesterday would have to be listed as number one with a bullet.
What’s amusing to me is how absolutely normal the event is in the farming world. While not a daily occurrence, it does happen often enough for a farmer to not even bat an eye while carrying out such a chore.
My wife’s sister visited their grandmother—who lives on a farm surrounded by her sons and their beef-cattle farms—and then came to visit us. Here’s the tale she brought with her…
When Lydia and I moved into our house, we had the only dwelling on the block. It was a new development, and while there were several structures to our west, behind our home, all else surrounding us was open field. This is not the case anymore; now we are boxed in, and there is no more open space.