Commentary/Satire by Bill the Butcher

There is a line in the song, “Cocaine.” Don’t forget this fact, you can’t get it back! There are scores of books, movies, studies, seminars, and hours of therapy about human separation. And it almost always comes down to some kind of reconciliation, either profound return of the components or an understanding of an agreement to tolerance of a terrible situation that somehow blossomed during the separation.

People change. In days gone by people would marry and grow old together. Now back in “them” days growing old together could be twenty or thirty years. Life was too hard to run away because the rigors of day to day living took your health, legs, and mental ability. If you didn’t love each other anymore it was too late to find someone else.

“These” days are quite lengthy. In modern times old women look pretty good. And couples find themselves in thirty, forty, or even fifty-year situations while still having a thirty-five-year mindset. Lord loveith a friendly babysitter. Combined with that, the new improved divorce grounds that deliver a pain free cure for the disenfranchised couples who somehow forgot to come home.

A large part of the time the loss of affection comes from partial or total separation either by choice or circumstances that weakens the bonds of matrimony. From too many late nights at the office to too many deployments overseas, eventually the pressures of life and love leads to the pursuit of happiness and there is no homecoming parade while the returning soldier with a wife and two year old little girl has to consider why the toilet seat is up when he returns from a year in Iraqistan. And in all fairness, he needs a shower, too!

The reintegration of familiarity can be a rocky road. In the absence new relationships may have come about and new bonds in spite of “understandings.” When you see someone everyday you accept little or even great changes. Lines appear, breasts sag, hair goes gray and 112 becomes 212 and you really don’t notice. Now compare that with a one year absence and you’ve been “remembering” the girl next door you went to school with and she looked just like your daughter! Ruh Roh!

Enough of that. Let’s kill a few kids, shall we? Ah, grandchildren. The patter of little feet. Doctors will tell you they will prolong your life. With their boisterous nature, the laughter, the cute way they climb up in the refrigerator. And they will carry on the family tradition. Only one problem. Grandchildren are a bunch of little shits! That’s why Mormons with their huge extended families spike them up with Methylphenidate, better known as Ritalin or Baby Stopper pills! They all have ADHD, OCD, or your DDD of choice. What they really need is playtime according to Psychologist Jordan Peterson. Run, play, (outside) fight, tumble and the smart ones will come home when the streetlights come on.

The reason grandparents end up watching grand-kids for extended lengths of time is that their kids have reached the breaking point and are busy looking for “next” and “she” doesn’t want the prospective new “he” to know about the little blessings. Well, not just yet. Eventually one of two things will happen. Either there will be a new family union formed between “new he” and “she,” or the Child Protective Services will give the kids to the grandparents. Family first!

If you are a grandparent in such a situation do not get attached. You are going to lose those kids. Your daughter will come and get them or your wife will leave with them. At any rate for from five to fifteen years you will be as forgotten as that ex-son in law that I have tactfully forgotten to mention. Forget him. It’s no good for you.

Telescope to when the blessings return in five or ten years all masturbating or on their period while you still imagine them sitting in front of the TV watching SpongeBob SquarePants! The only Square in the house is you! All settled into your life, sipping cocktails and listening to the birds on your back porch. Well, your life is over as you knew it. Mommy? Looking for Mr. Right number three. Your relationship with all these strangers has changed but 23 and Me still tells you it’s all your fault. They don’t listen, they don’t care and they wish you’d get out of there. They are gay, woke, toked, and poked, and in your private moments you tell yourself, “I have to make this look like an accident!”

Here’s the fix. Take your life savings and buy a used school bus. Find a Coed who just flunked out. Go and buy a case of Jim Beam. (Forget about those stupid alcoholic videos on YouTube!”) Go to Occatillo Wells California. The off-track camps. You know. Where the Mexicans go. Disconnect your cell and try to act like you’re not having a good time.

If you can’t beat them, join them!

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