Thursday, October 06, 2011

Not Job

Job, as in the character from the Bible, was a devout man who was beset by divinely inflicted tragedies (courtesy, as my aging brain remembers, of Satan ... back when he worked for God), but whose faith in God never wavered. If you want to see something like Job in action then check out the Coen brothers 1960s era movie of A Serious Man.

I am not Job. For a start I'm not devout. There's lingering hints from my semi-churchy upbringing (regular weekly attendance; Friday night Christian youth group) but, by and large, I'm done with that as a concept.

For another ... I have limited patience and a sometime quick temper.

I do try and not let the snarler out. Where I go into a mini-paroxysm of intense almost feral rage and starting F'ing and C'ing and stomping around.

The anger burst or snarler I think is largely a genetic thing. My dad has it; I have it; my brothers have it. We do try and keep it in check but, when our gander is up, we do unleash.

As a kid I was a shocker. I'd go Mad Goat at the drop of a hat. I suppose it didn't help having a combative household. We all tended to yell at each other. So much so I once got told off by a neighbour for screaming at my parents up my drive-way. We being in the countryside and the neighbour on an enjoining property a hundred metres away.

Now I'm older I'm less overt. I still get angry or annoyed but I don't explode. I'll get a bit sullen or morose; screw my face up and be passive-aggressive, but I usually don't get nuts.

Unless it's failing technology. If it's failing technology—blue-screen computer; lag; dropped connection; program shutting down; failure to boot; load times; power issue—then the snarler builds and wants to erupt out with extreme shouting of 'fuck you you fucking fuck!' and possibly the shaking of the offending thing as well.

Given my white-collar life ... when it happens at work ... I have to really keep it in.

Today it was the old laptop. I bought it for about two hundred bucks three years ago. I doesn't have a modem. It's clunky. It's annoying. Oh, and the DVD drive doesn't work properly. But it's good for what it's used for now—in the shed next to the exercise bike and used to watch AVI files through while I ride the exercise bike—The Purgatory Cart (1).

Midway through the ride, my arse already numb (2), the power cord for the old laptop fell out of the socket. I must have knocked it before and in the twelve minute journey from being on and watched to it falling out must have been ever so slightly slipping away all that time. Unfortunately old laptop's battery was dead. So the thing switched itself off.

Now I hate exercise. Hate it. I hate any real form of physical movement because my body is in constant discomfort. My right shoulder aches. My right hand aches. My left hip—due to be replaced in December—aches.

But I ride the bike because I can no longer walk. Because a daily walk, US post service style, was the only thing I could point to as something I did that was dedicated physical activity.

The bike is not pleasant. I'm uncomfortable. Then my trigger of failing technology kicked in. Interrupting the stupid fucking bike ride that I just want to be fucking over and done with. I want it done. I don't want to fucking do it any more. And then that happened.

So I got off, yelling blue murder. I whipped the cord around in order to get it into a position where it wouldn't fall out so readily and in the process knocked into the ladder which then fell onto the radiator which fell sideways and into the old free-standing vanity table. It was like a fucking Rube Goldberg machine kicking off (3).

It was a loud physical reminder of what happens when the snarler comes out.

I was so loud and angry and crash/bang/wallop that theWife, sick-as, hobbled out to see if I was okay, fearful I'd fallen off and was screaming for help.

Stupid genetically-fueled anger (4).

(1) The exercise bike on loan from Casso—a delightfully hued fairy princess who dwells in a special glade high on a pristine hill top; fresh and free from the privation of man. If that is you excuse the presence of her child, boyf and flattie.
(2) Weird boner confession time. The penis is its own sensory system it seems. It kind of 'perks up' during the initial rush of arousal. The tip actually lifts ever so slightly ... like when Charlie starts to rise up in the bubble shaft (Shaft! Damn right) ... or like a sleeping dog that just heard something. The arse-numbening from The Purgatory Cart sometimes, on occasion, causes that state to kick in. So when done, even as I slide exhausted off the seat, with absolutely no interest in fanging one out, I have this lifting penile tip sensation that doesn't go away for at least a couple of minutes. Stupid incidental non-sexually related partial erection.
(3) Yet another concept I am familiar with thanks to the lads at The Daily Show.
(4) This is not to excuse me being angry or getting angry at stupid stuff. It's just that I have a genetic wiring to get angry and get angry quickly. Perhaps when we were still living in the former outsides of other animals and hunting and or gathering then quick-to-anger was a benefit—such as in the taking out a rival before they could act then inseminating his women with your seed. But, like my genetic predisposition for weight gain, it's a genetic wiring that's of little use in today's modern setting. However ... come the Apocalypse ... (4a)
(4a) ... come nothing. I have already determined that, due to my inherent weaknesses and inability to do anything remotely practical, and thus a proud representative of the B-Ark, I recognize that in a world gone mad ... I'm basically mobile food that will scream at you before you kill and or eat me. Given my lack of beauty I'm presuming that the sexual violation of my corpse prior to ingestion (now that's seasoning!) is however off the table ... that I'm being eaten from.

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