Humble pie

So. Been a stretch eh? Yeh, the main road got blown in real good and the phone line went down somewhere on it's 2814 poles and the powers been a flickering at times, but we're all surviving up here, I mean that's what fire wood is for. Bob and his brother Bob and his other brother Bob cleared our twenty three miles of road even though the path meanders a little out over the ditches at times, come spring thaw we'll all have to be a mite careful about following their rectilinear rectitude. Yes it was quite a storm, the wind howling for three days straight from all four directions and in between. Six inches of snow all piled up against anything that it could get a grip on. Our D7 was in it's glory as we built a ski hill beside the barn to keep the cattle from succumbing to barn fever, it being a wee bit cramped in there for the whole bunch, with all the cleaning we'd have to do up after them. They've taken to camping out on top and even requisitioned straw and hay to be brought up to them, but we put a stop on that because legally they're on the wrong side of the fence and they darn well know it.

Austerity. That's what cultivated Herb calls it. The rectitude behind our 70 miles of remaining blown in for weeks on end. Although the sign which says “Rough road ahead” may be buried and no one realizes that life exists beyond the contours of our nearest outpost, but that's a crock, they know we're here with all the joking we overhear about us squatters. Cultivated Herb was telling us of the Basel Committee which in 1974 due to stagflation convened itself out of the central-bank Governors of the Group of Ten countries of the member central banks of the Bank for International Settlements (BIS), which included Canada. A key objective of the Committee was and is to maintain “monetary and financial stability.” To achieve that goal, the Committee discouraged borrowing from a nation’s own central bank interest-free and encouraged borrowing from private creditors, all in maintaining the stability of the currency.

The presumption was that borrowing from a central bank with the power to create money on its books would inflate the money supply and prices. Borrowing from private creditors, on the other hand, was considered not to be inflationary, since it involved the recycling of pre-existing money. What the bankers did not reveal, although they dang well knew it themselves, was that private banks create the money they lend just as public banks do. The difference is simply that a publicly-owned bank returns the interest to the government and the community, while a privately-owned bank siphons the interest into its capital account, to be re-invested at further interest, progressively drawing money out of the productive economy.

Thus our far sighted and truly caring governments had to impose austerity upon us all, so that we could support our impoverished bankers without financing too large a deficit. It makes for an honest humility to be able to wake in the morning and realize we are doing our small part up here, to live isolated from the mainstream of humanity for weeks on end to give that much needed stability to our currency. But lord, it's hard to be humble. Seventy miles of ten foot drifts to the nearest six pack. Look out widow Rachael, you got some tax free hooch?

You keep that pot covered, eh.

The conundrum of it all

Sasquatches are often the topic of conversation up here in the bush. On occasion all the dogs hide their tails, the cows come into the yard and form a ring around the young ones, and even the black bears give up their bashfulness and approach the perimeters of our human habitats. Those long mournful moans in the middle of the night are enough to put visions in anyone's mind. We've taken the precaution of erecting a sign for the lost tourists and odd hunters who manage to navigate our rock strewn network of perilous roads. It's just down the road a stretch from Johnny Be Good's shack because that's where most of them get seen, from a healthy distance of course because sasquatches disappear into the bush as soon as anyone approaches. You never know though, one might trip over a rock.

The truth and Johnny Be Good do walk rather loosely hand in hand, however. He still denies it was him and his two dogs all dressed up in black woolly suits that Halloween long ago, ill threatening treats or vengeance from our outlying denizens. And Johnny has been seen with a moose call strung around his neck in the most untimely seasons. Now we're not going to be the ones to start a conspiracy theory here, but it does make one think.

Anyone who's shared a swig with the good widow Rachael from her little still down the hill will recount, in their willies, wondrous tales of her wanderings in the bush and being lost for days on end to be guided back to civilization by the most gentle and noble giant creatures imaginable. She says they do smell a tad though. On one journey when she twisted her ankle she was actually carried home by a huge male who tenderly set her on her doorstep and then disappeared without a trace. And she is utterly convinced that the many small gifts left on her path to the biffy such as Saskatoon berries from the patch three miles away, or a row of neatly placed stones have been left by her hairy friends.

Then again, no one takes the good widow Rachael all that serious as she recalls her ventures in odd shaped craft which take her to Mars and beyond to sit in the galactic bars with eccentric beings whose sole purpose is to enlighten her on the opus of our universe. Mind you, she has disappeared for some pretty good stretches over the years and her old Harley was parked right beside the house, so go figure.

We have all seen some really hard to explain lights in the sky though, over the years, usually far off on the horizon out over Suckers Marsh where the geese nest. We've been told of course that it's swamp gas or northern lights but we weren't born yesterday and have a good surmise that those type of lights would not come in the flashing or steady patterned forms they often display, sitting still for aeons and then hurtling off to new adventures in the great white north. Oh the conundrum of it all, eh?

Now you keep that pot covered, and don't go spreading this all around.

Pain and rectitude

The time of atonement is nigh. Oh the wrath of the invincible. The overpowering encumbrance dwelling in the bowels of the vanquished. To seat on the throne of martyrdom and strain for release of all circumscription. To agonize in forbearance with inflaming intestinal fortitude. Have mercy upon mercy upon us for we have sinned, we have sinned. We have eaten from the tendril free brawn of the earth and have been loath to drink from the rippling brooks of deliverance. Oh, woe is us, woe is us, these infernal hemorrhoids.

We seat ourselves on our beloved D7 and bounce on the cold metal seat in anguish. Does anyone hear our voice and supplications. No one hath inclined his ear unto us, therefore will we loath compassion as long as we live. The sorrows of anguish compassed us, and the pains of hell gat hold upon us, and we found only trouble and sorrow. So called we upon our thundering ancient D7, oh omnipotent D7, we beseech thee, numb our bum to this abhorrent torment.

Gracious is our D7, and righteous; yea, our D7 is merciful. It has walked us through the valleys of the shadows of despair, we will not be afraid of the throes of adversity, because it is with us, it's palpitations and ice chilling podium, they comfort us. Our D7 preserveth the simple, we were brought low, and it befriended us. Return unto rest, oh our entrails, for our D7 hath dealt bountifully with us. For it hast delivered our soul from tribulation, our eyes from tears, and our feet from writhing.

We will walk again in the land of the living. We believed, therefore we were vindicated. Yes, we were greatly afflicted. We said in our haste, all beasts are traitors. What shall we render unto our stolid D7 for all it's benevolence toward us? We shall take the cup of STP, and anoint it upon the grease permeated fissures in our beloved engine, in hopes a little will betroth itself within the voluminous oil pan. Thusly will we pay our vows unto unto our omnipotent D7 now in the presence of all it's sublimity. Oh our D7, truly we are thy servant, thou hast loosed our bonds. We will offer to thee this sacrifice of thanksgiving, and in our hour of need we will surely again call upon thee to bestow upon our bottom the freedom from tribulation. Praise to our D7.

We instill upon ye all to keep the pot covered, harken ye all.

The Vale of Tines

As hosers we rely on Hoserpedia for much of our enlightenment on the mythology surrounding our local names and customs. Even our federal politicians consult it's vast wealth of submissions in an effort to gain insight to the voting habits of us less than beguiled denizens of the bush. Someone, probably a disgruntled salesperson, submitted this little piece regarding our neck of the woods which we proudly call The Vale of Tines. “Over the last 150 years many have tried to clear a little patch of bush in this unique little community, perhaps for a garden or even a field of oats for the more ambitious. Now the land being a tad rocky, an ancient ice age moraine, a tine or two was oft broken in the digging, or perchance a plow shear, in fact everything that tried to scar the earth got broken and the result has been a sea of metal, yes the valley of tines. Yet the inhabitants love their little vale, and this love must prevail over the ambition of a rocky prosperity.”

Valentines day is quit the wingding here in the Vale of Tines Municipality at Schmoes Diner, as we fancy this as the day to solemnize our community representatives as our servants of undertaking to fleece us of our taxes. We've never had a vote here, as the biggest challenge is to simply to get our advocates to let their name stand for election and if they do no one in heir right mind would challenge their wisdom. Bob and his brother Bob and his other brother Bob make the perfect team for running the ancient 649 Champion grader, and that's really all we need a council for, to keep our twenty three miles of road navigable. The Bobs have been our councillors for nigh on fifteen years, and they don't seem to mind too much because it gives them a legal foothold to be seen any hour of the day in all sorts of perplexing locations. And they have this serene demeanour which allows them to calmly assemble all the local tractors and plow mares in a campaign to free them of being marooned in the ditches which they frequently attend, which usually takes two or three days of supplication.

They have worked out quite the systematical approach to snow clearing, these Bobs. Bob, he goes ahead with a long pole to mark where the ditches are, and his brother Bob, he knows what all the levers and pedals do inside the cab, and Bob's other brother Bob, well he sits on the hood and bangs two pots together to scare away the black bears in case the battered muffler isn't intimidating enough, or when the engine dies and the bears come by for a bit of lunch which the Bobs always have in good supply. They make a pretty good racket, these three, and it is rather entertaining to watch the parade with all the local bears trailing behind.

Creating the school board was a challenge as we needed at least two trustees to make it official. Joe with his nine kids was keen to run, as his kids partiality towards book work was often vanquished by mutiny, and getting a little school established might just free him and his good wife from this struggle. Cultivated Herb was the obvious second choice, but to get him interested a budget large enough to allow him to attend a yearly educational convention in the south had to be assured. Transparency was the key issue among most residents, and it was finally ratified that they could set their own mill rate as long as they promised to stay out of fancy cafes and eat bologna sandwiches on their pedantic missions. After our two trustees were officially solemnized, they were overheard discussing completion of the little church for a school house, the one which the good Baptist missionary had abandoned in his quest for atonement as he fled the community several years ago. And speaking of the good widow Rachael with her her gracious good charm, she was resolemnized as treasurer, and it will be rather interesting to see if she wants to help out with the rafters again, Cultivated Herb being a bachelor and all.

Now you hosers all keep that pot covered, eh.

Drivel

We encourage independence here in our enchanting illusion of paradise in the bush. It's really a thrill on a tranquil morning if Bessy can get her stripling calf to do the milking, or if one of our more acrobatic chickens can fly up to the loft and peck a hole in a handy feed sack so it trickles down for everyone's breakfast. It has taken several years of tolerant trust, dawdling patiently over our morning coffee, to allow our critters to achieve that needed inner strength to gain this liberty. It really shows though in the equanimity they bestow upon life and their condescending attitude towards those mortals who view them as servile creatures.

To embellish on H.L. Mencken, we champion the thinking that the urge to nurture critters is almost always a false face for the urge to rule them. John Locke wrote, also with a sprig of floridity, that in the state of nature, liberty consists of being free from any superior power on earth. Creatures are not under the will or lawmaking authority of others but have only the law of nature for their rule.

Now you may think, Garlic Hornswoggler, you're just full of drivel and your making all this up because your just too damnably lazy to get up in the morning and do your chores. But you know, Aristotle, he wrote that fiction is more philosophic and more serious than fact, because it speaks of universals rather than particulars; there is more truth in understanding the soul of a man like Homer’s Odysseus than in knowing, to quote Aristotle, what “Alcibiades did or had done to him.” And with our perceptions of truth and fact being so dependant on upbringing and environment, who's to say that fiction doesn't incarnate in the eye of the beholder? So we bet that puts you in your place.

So, we have installed this motto in the hen house and the barn which says “They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety. - Benjamin Franklin.” Our biggest challenge here is that they really have taken this all to heart and we're all having a tough sell in finding the fitting philosophical bent to endow them with the liberty to clean their own pens. You all keep that pot covered now, OK?

Hanlon's razor

Our chickens are pretty much free range, because it would really be a lot of work to fix all the holes in their fence, and they do complain a lot when they're stuck inside. Even on the nicer days in winter they like to strut their stuff, pecking at the gravel up and down the drive although we think they might also have a hankering after the ice worms since we have overheard their tiny iPods playing Jenny Omnichord's “When the ice worms nest again.” Yes, they are a tad concerned with the environment, and have been seen blockading the logging trucks barrelling down the road past the end of the drive.

Now those assiduous truckers consider this as a bit of animosity, on the part of our chickens' ecological leanings of course, as they always have to keep a watchful eye out for these unorganized demonstrators as chicken feathers tend to plug up their radiators quite effectively. We have had many bracing conversations with these drivers regarding these capricious incidents, and try to persuade them that they should not attribute malice on the part of our chickens to that which can adequately be explained by their stupidity, always out of hearing of our sensitive chickens ears of course. Even Charles Darwin surmised that ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge. And all this doesn't even begin to beg the question of why our chickens are on the road. It probably never even crosses these truckers minds that our chickens may simply have environmental concerns and would be very willing to discuss the consequences of clear cutting on their more wild cousins, and may then listen to the insight that becoming flattened against overpowering forces is only survivable in cartoon format.

Musing over Dunning and Kruger who were awarded the 2000 satirical Ig Nobel Prize in Psychology for their paper, "Unskilled and Unaware of It: How Difficulties in Recognizing One's Own Incompetence Lead to Inflated Self-Assessments," we found scientific proof of our conjectures. The Ig Nobel awards come with little cash, but much cachet, and reward those research projects that first make people laugh, and then make them think. The Dunning–Kruger effect is a cognitive bias wherein unskilled individuals suffer from illusory superiority, mistakenly assessing their ability much higher than is accurate. This bias is attributed to a metacognitive inability of the unskilled to recognize their ineptitude. Conversely, highly skilled individuals tend to underestimate their relative competence, erroneously assuming that tasks which are easy for them are also easy for others.

Now this is scientific proof of Hanlon's razor, which stipulates you should never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity. We have therefore implemented a truck driving course for our chickens, to enhance their metacognitive ability so that they may at least recognize their ineptitude and stay out of harms way, environmental concerns of course notwithstanding, whether they get hired on as truckers or not. Yes, higher learning affords many benefits beyond degree-ocracy, that emergence of a new kind of social status, a modern day version of aristocracy based not on a chicken’s heritage but on their level of academic achievements. Our poor coddled chickens, trapped into social darwinism more and more by the hour.

Now you keep that pot covered, eh.

Superbowl Sunday

We were all over at Schmoes Diner last Sunday evening for the super bowl. That's quite the occasion for us all up here, with no TV reception and telephone dial up internet that takes 3 hours just to download the news. Schmoe phones up his bud in Pelican Junction, that's about 70 miles down the road, he gets the Sunday long distance rate, and his bud puts the receiver down beside his TV and the sound makes it's way through the wires strung along the 2814 telephone poles, and this number has been verified many times, to Schmoe's phone where he lays it beside his little amp. And then just to make the whole event more realistic Schmoe has this rectangular table all divided up with masking tape into end zones and all the yard lines labelled with a black marker, and he gets out his box of white and green toy army guys and a black checker for the football, and we all stand around the table trying to keep the lines in the right place according to the sportscasters. There aren't enough plastic soldiers for both offence and defence, so that makes it a little easier. The most fun part is taking turns whenever there's a field goal, trying to flick the checker between the salt and pepper shakers set up for goal posts. For halftime, Schmoe brought out this cute little doll, he does get teased for his fetish, and set her on the centre line as we listened to Ms. Perry sing her tunes.

Speaking of fetishes and dolls, our handsome Fritz who's this cross between an Irish Wolf Hound and a real wolf, well he has this thing about our wife's great stuffed pink teddy bear, and he's neutered, Fritz that is. He stole that teddy bear out of the house and spends hours humping it out behind the barn. Never mind, a Watkins man stopped by and our wife was out in the middle of the yard discussing soaps and detergents. Our Fritzy would not allow that Watkins man to come within ten feet to our wife, and then just to make sure that fellow got the message he lifted his leg and pissed all over our wife's foot. He sure told that guy whose property not to mess with. She felt so impregnable.

Since we're several thousand miles from where either of these fabulous football teams stem, us being about halfway between Boston and Seattle and just a tad north, we don't have much loyalty to either one. This kind of gets obvious when someone comes in from outside and asks who's winning and the answer is “The little green guys.” Even the exalted commercials lose a thing or two without the video. We're all just there for the camaraderie, us all not being that concerned over our Sunday penitencies since the young Baptist missionary left his little church half built after the widow Rachael showed up every day in her most salacious attire to help with the rafters. We guessed he didn't wish to become a farmer having to pastor on the side. That would be an undertaking.

So it was back to work on Monday and Schmoe could put his Barbie dolls all back in the closet. Keep that pot covered now, eh.

Johnny Be Good

This morning our cattle came home all in a row from their daily fence inspection. All was good on the perimeters said Bessy, the provider of the cream for our coffee and the dominant matriarch in her stable little hierarchy. They had been chatting with Johnny Be Good's cows out on fringes of the northeast quarter section. Apparently Johnny Be Good had been living up to his moniker, again. Johnny's cows had cornered him in the coral after he lost his temper with them for being a little pushy at his shiny new tractor when he brought them a fresh bale of hay. Seems like they got him stuck in the muck, and he had to make a run for it and jump over the nine foot high coral boards, Johnny being the butt of his cattle's joking around about extremists, and Johnny, not tolerating any of this incitement to joviality, had put them all in the chute and promptly trimmed their horns all off. This had destabilized their dominance hierarchy so much that their glucocorticoid levels were running rampant and this had caused much infighting, all over a bit of horse play. That Johnny Be Good.

Bessy, she's pretty smart, she asked us if we'd check out on the net what the root cause of their friends problems were. So we gathered info from many different sources, some possibly a tad less reliable than others. Applying it all to this situation we found there was a given amount of food and resources available for Johnny's cattle on his homestead. If it was divided evenly among them all, they would all have enough for their needs. It was all in this game of distribution.

Present day conjecture assumes that all cattle have the same opportunity to eat and take care of their needs. Those who are stronger or a bit smarter or have more desire to, can however eat more than others. What arises from this is that once they eat more they may produce more milk or gain more weight and become the favourites of their champions, and this can influence the astuteness involved in allowing them to eat even more and produce even more milk or gain weight even faster. Those with this influence have thus modified their customary feeding habits and their champions are content to enforce this adjustment, in fact, it can become quite an autonomous culture, this enforcement thing, especially with shiny new armaments involved. When other cattle question these conjectures this enforcement culture can get a mite uptight.

So, it would seem here the problem is Johnny's new tractor. Some of his cattle were not too keen on his feeding strategy. Johnny Be Good's dogma which purports to value a shiny new paint job over the needs and desires of his fellow creatures may herald forth a few dissenters. So we were able to give Bessy this information to pass on, that if Johnny Be Good's cattle want to be treated civilly, they must dent and scratch that shiny new tractor till it looks like a a piece of junk. Only then will the dogma evaporate into a sustainable relationship for all parties involved.

As a disclaimer we must add that this solution we passed on to Bessy involves absolutely no conflict of interest. Just because the pile of fence posts we had stored along side our adjoining fence line were slowly disappearing, and Johnny claimed he didn't even know they were there when they were in plain sight, does not mean we have any other interest at heart, other than the well being of his cattle. Now you keep that pot covered, eh.

The good widow Rachael

As you may gather, Schmoes Diner (that is without the apostrophe because that is the way his sign is writ), is the focal point in our neck of the woods out here since the municipal yard just has one shed with no heat. Anyhow, Schmoe has a bulletin board by the door which is used mostly for buy and sell stuff and major notifications. So, one fine morning there was this poem tacked up. It had no title but it didn't really matter as everyone buzzed around cracking up in merriment. The speculation was that one of the local wives had become a trifle vengeful and had taken to heart the saying that the pen was mightier than the sword. This is what the wrathful one had writ:

There was a nice lady who lived on a farm

She raised chickens and pigs with elegance and charm

Had a big garden and fruit bushes too

And big fuzzy cats who meant no one harm

And on her wee farm she had a wee still

In a wee shed at the bottom of the hill

She had three husbands all buried in a row

They all died most blissfully from drinking her swill

She talked with droll umbras when she was want for enthrall

About life in the Orient and high in Nepal

She knew all the vices of wise men she'd desiderate

In her journeys to remote places she had quite the ball

She'd been on a space ship that took her to Mars

Always been enraptured since visiting the stars

They'd taught her of magics and premises disquisitive

And showed her their wonders in macrocosmic bars

Her dress it was ornate as was her thought

And she bamboozled her neighbours with tales well wrought

Wives would find broomsticks to beat their behinds

When husbands were tempted to have a small drought

There was a nice lady who lived on a farm

It's a mystery to fathom her gracious good charm

So good luck to you weasels if she finds you enthralling

Best wax as inscrutable and head for your barn

Just as everyone was settling down a bit in walks no one other than the good widow Rachael herself. Of course she has to stop by the pin board to read the latest and there is definitely a hush in the atmosphere. Well, composure being a trait of elegance and charm, she simply sits herself down and asks Joe how his kids are doing. Everyone thought maybe she hadn't bothered to read the little poem so the place got to humming with our local gossip again. Later on after the good widow Rachael had made her way on, someone eyed a new little line at the bottom of that vengeful lyric and everyone gathered to read  “cause she just loves a dare.”

Try to keep that pot covered,eh.

Ill defined prerogatives

We all bucked through the unplowed snow drifts to Schmoes Diner yesterday where the talk was all about Canada's new immigrant program designed to bring millionaires to our impoverished country. The government announced it would give permanent residency to international investors who could invest $2 million in Canada, in an effort to attract experienced business people who could give the Canadian economy a boost. We were all pretty excited that maybe we could attract one or two to our neck of the woods. Schmoe was a little less than enthusiastic as it would mean he would have to add more items to his menu than burgers and coffee and fries (in alphabetical order) if he were to compete if one of these rich dudes decided to open up a new restaurant.

We figured if we could attract some of these rich whippersnappers to buy a quarter section of bush and start homesteading we could really build our municipal tax base and get some decent roads and maybe even a fire truck. With all that business experience they might even be cajoled to sit on the council and maybe give some insight into keeping our ancient 671 Champion grader running at least enough to plow the snow. But then Cultivated Herb came along and said he had met some of these rich foreign folk, and he thought they'd be more app to be city types living with a few niceties than joining us out here in the sticks.

Cultivated Herb is up on a lot of these things, he even reads the “Globe and Mail,” and he said this outfit called the Immigrant Investor Capital Program would take these dudes $2 million, if they were wanting to integrate into Canada's somewhat languorous relationship with the world at large, and divest it into brazenly speculative ventures aimed at increasing our exposure to the economic forefront of civilization, all at their own risk mind you, contributing to our long-term perplexity and the economic growth of the 1%. For this they would be given the right to vote and make full use of our medicare programs.

Bucking the snow drifts on the way home again, we got to feeling kind of in touch with the rest of our amazing Canada. Those guys in Ottawa were really trying their best to make a go of our humble nation. To open our borders to these one percenters who may come part and parcel with some other ill defined prerogatives is quite enterprising and makes us feel quit at home here living with our resourceful neighbours who also have some ill defined prerogatives. Oh to be part of this great land. You all keep that pot covered now, eh!

Pavlov's chicken

We have this neurotic chicken running around the yard here this year. She takes a brown marker to her toes because she doesn't want the others to know she quit smoking. Yes she has quite the complex. But since she quit smoking she's taken to chasing Fritz who being a cross between an Irish Wolf Hound and a real wolf, his mother chased one down, picks her up all squawking and drops her in the water trough.

Mystified at this behaviour, we stumbled upon Pavlov and his behaviour theory. The central doctrine of this school is that an understanding of all behavioural responses may be acquired through a grasp of the concepts of drive, cue, response, and reward and their derivatives; rewarded responses become habits through a process of conditioning, and unrewarded responses tend to be extinguished. This doesn't seem to really apply to our wet smoke free chicken as we ponder of our fountains of amusement. Our guess is Pavlov didn't raise neurotic chickens.

The results of two studies indicate that people who are high in openness to new experience and high in neuroticism are likely to be bloggers, and additionally that the neurotical relationship was moderated by gender indicating that women who are high in neuroticism are more likely to be bloggers as compared to those low in neuroticism whereas there was no difference for men. So our chicken being a women for all intents and purposes, we wondered if bringing her in the house to the keypad would ease her sillier tendencies as she vented herself on the world at large. Us not being fluent in hen peck, do not really know if it is working, but she does seem to enjoy the house more than the water trough, although Fritz with his insight can't stop anticipating the friendly fire with his eye on the back door.

Being high on positive emotion is an element of the independent trait of extroversion. Neurotic extroverts experience high levels of both positive and negative emotional states, a kind of emotional roller coaster. Being intent on comprehending the masochistic tendencies of our chicken, we're pretty sure the water trough episodes and ensuing grooming sessions are needed to gratify the needed negative emotional states. Pavlov would be exalted by our acumen, and his theory would stand unabated.

With all due respect to our chickens, we do not harbour any ill will, or even entertain ridicule. We mostly poke fun at our own misunderstandings of your appreciated presence on our planet. And we enjoy having you over for dinner. We don't seem to be able to dig ourselves out of this hole now, do we?   We do wonder what Pavlov would say.      You all keep the pot covered, okay?

Chickens in the cloud

We were working on our pugnacious old D7, that's the one with the pony motor and the hand clutch that'll rip your arm off, because it gives us this tingle of intrepidness to embellish the task of clearing three inches of snow off our drive. Somehow the cloud of diesel smoke wafting away into evanescence got us thinking since the cloud was all the rage out there, why not bring it to the bush. We had first considered the enterprise of raising virtual chickens and pigs and cows and of course complete with virtual excrement, and to sell them for virtual money so we could pay our virtual hydro bill and live in virtual warmth, but then winter would come along and we'd freeze our virtual buts off, so we sort of decided to pass on that one, because string theory aside, winter isn't all that virtual.

This cloud thing however, it has real possibilities. We could raise our cows and chickens and pigs along with their feed in the cloud, so to speak. If each hick out here got together and we created a few misty meadows out in the bush where we could keep all our livestock, and a few more misty ramparts to stash the feed in, why look at the possibilities. We could focus on maximizing the effectiveness of our shared resources by dynamically reallocating them per demand. So if Joe over there wanted a chicken or two to feed his nine kids, he could just call up the widow Rachael who we could hire as our full time data central and she wouldn't have to wink so much at the local bachelors to make ends meet. She could get Bob and his brother Bob and his other brother Bob to deliver them toot sweet and they could have a real job to keep them out of adversity. And all of us hicks, why we'd have all the time in the world to get a real job to pay for all this innovativeness. On second thought, that's what we toil away at already, and it may be easier just to raise our own chickens and cows and pigs. And the good widow Rachael and Bob and his brother Bob and his other brother Bob all kind of get titillated with the life they have anyhow, with all due respect. Oh how this intrepidness clouds the brain.

Well, the drive is clean right down to the bedrock, and a steaming hot cup of coffee will put our intrepidness right up there on cloud number nine, so till next time, keep the pot covered, eh.

Anankasticism

We aren't part of the 1% out here on the back 40, those rich dudes we keep hearing about on the news, and that may be an understatement. But we have our own ways of gratifying our obsessive compulsive disorders. Why, we have one heifer who's so obsessed with her anxiety over a consistent feed supply that she keeps breaking the fence down into the stack yard. Our local vet tried fluoxetine, but she developed such an aversion to her meds that we can't get close to her with that darn pill gun. The vet says this poor heifer thinks that all the cattle have the need to be as well fed as her, but they can't do it because they are just inferior. It never occurs to her that the rest of them just have other goals.

We were in Schmoes Delicatessen, that's the place out on the highway with burger, coffee, and fries all listed alphabetically on the menu and where you can usually find a willing mouth to entertain you for a stretch. Cultivated Herb, our local palaver of useful information, was discoursing on obsessive–compulsive personality disorder, also apparently called anankastic personality disorder, this personality disorder characterized by a pervasive pattern of preoccupation with orderliness, perfectionism, excessive attention to details, mental and interpersonal control, and a need for power over one's environment, at the expense of flexibility and openness.

Now the drive to amass wealth, in purely psychological terms, is a symptom of this anankasticism. Fear of the world makes these dudes want to control it, and wealth is a means of obtaining some measure of control. Most of this, like most of what motivates us, is subconscious. Dudes who want to become wealthy are not known to be paragons of self-inspection, and for the most part think they are quite normal. That's why they think that everyone has the need to be as rich as them, but can't do it because they are just inferior. It never occurs to them that the rest of us really just have other goals. This has apparently been studied, and is becoming increasingly well understood. In previous centuries these people became robber barons, dictators, and tyrants. We have simply progressed.

These regulars at Schmoes, they all know we have this here blog, and the conversion got vitiated around for the need to amass followers for our little blog here, and they're making all kinds of pleasantries at us and our need to control the world and all with our blogging. Guess we'll have to go home and take some fluoxetine if that rascally heifer don't want it.

You all have a good day and keep the pot covered, eh.

Escape of the bull

So, we've got the bull back in the barn and his pen all shored up. It was quite the morning with him a pawin and a snortin and then goin through the barn door, well he sort of lifted it and went underneath, all because he got the hots for some neighbourhood sweety who was smelling fine. He was off an over the fences and through the widow Rachael's garden patch, and we'll never hear the end of that. We had to load a charming heifer who was jumpin on every critter in sight on the back of the pickup and he followed her home like a good little boy and we let him have a go at her and he got as placated as a bag of wet macaroni.

Now we were having our coffee and discussing the philosophical implications of such occurrences what with the earth's population sitting at around 9 billion. Men and women being men and women they all gets the hots too, and the Pope he doesn't value much any counter potency efforts excepting good morals and that's real good if your fine and upstanding, but we got politicians on this good earth too. So we figured that if we did away with politicians we could control our population, but Joe, he wants to be on the school board because he's got nine kids, and well that just about ended our discourse right there but we all had a real good snicker.

This big colloquium their having in Davos has really got our chickens scratching. Some top drawer cracks are worrying their poor heads that economic growth was slower than it might have been in countries with limitations on online activity. They say people should be concerned, national solutions won't protect the interests of global companies. They want to mobilize businesses on this issue in the same way they are mobilized for free trade pacts. Our chickens are telling us we better watch out or we'll be voting for Walmart or Exxon or Cargill to exalt our freedoms pretty soon, and chicken feed could get pretty pricey. We run a real democracy out here in the back 40, and the chickens all voted to keep themselves free range, with lots of cock a doodle dooing about keeping that hole in the fence open. Says a lot for their confidence in humanity.

If we can keep this telephone internet connection operational here, we'll try to keep you city folk all informed about our valued opinions out here in the bush. Keep the pot covered, eh.