Nothing to Bitch About
I rant and rave about the way things would look in a perfect world-humble celebrities, a cure for baldness, and combination sports bars-guns ranges (it would work). The savvy Rhino Den reader knows this about The Curmudgeon. You would think my life sucks with all the complaining I do, but lately I just can’t find anything to bitch about.
I want to bitch about the horrible over-congested traffic in DC, but when I realize I don’t have to flinch at every pile of rocks on the side of the road for fear of one being an IED, I become more tolerant.
I want to bitch about my 2-mile run time getting slower and slower with each PT test, but then I see a group of Walter Reed amputees riding their hand bikes 110 miles and suddenly revel in the blessing of bipedalism.
I want to bitch about the waitress who brought me a warm beer, but stop short when I remember all the troops willing to low crawl through Fallujah for a drop of boiling hot cereal malt beverage.
I want to bitch about not remembering where my keys are, but then I run into Nicolette Mauroulis and Lee Stuckey who can’t remember their names some days because of a bad encounter with an IED and realize forgetfulness is part of being human. TBI is not.
I want to bitch about not getting enough sleep, but stop when a vet tells me about the cocktail of drugs he has to take just to keep the nightmares at bay.
I want to bitch about getting sent to attend a last-minute conference in New Jersey, but I think you know why I won’t. I know a few thousand guys who would trade Helmand Province for Jersey any day.
When it’s all said and done, I want to bitch about the easy targets; the pampered athletes who transform into whining poopface toddlers on the field of play and irresponsible jackasses when they step off it.
As Andrew Brining on the Bleacher Report says – “It’s literally impossible to go more than 30 seconds in an NBA game without seeing a 6’8″ super-freak with granite shoulders on the verge of tears following a borderline tweet from the ref. They’ve even taken to blogging their feet stomping and fist-balling. Most coaches are a call or two away from sideline apoplexy.”
But as much as I want to bitch about those douchebags, I still can’t. All the sordid tales of Tiger Woods and Ben Rothlisberger sexcapades have become so commonplace that bad behavior is almost expected among our professional athletes and respect for them has become an outdated concept. There are exceptions (like Drew Brees who has visited troops overseas 9 times), but the glaring reality is that an American football star running a dog-fighting ring shocked us a few years ago, but now wouldn’t be surprising.
As hard as it is to admit, their antics are part of being American and when I see the troops enjoying games broadcast on AFN into Iraq and Afghanistan, I realize that no matter how bad our athletes are, at least we have some. Even though they’ll never understand why some of us flinch at a pile of rocks on the side of the road, wake up with night tremors, leave post-its to remember our names, or deploy year after year to ensure they have the freedom to play their reindeer games back here, I’ll still watch my favorite teams. If that’s all I have to bitch about then life ain’t too bad.
Now if someone would open a combination sports bar-gun range.