Curmudgeon Report


Headline of a local newspaper article:

“T-shirts could aid Viking’s stadium bid”

Curmudgeons, particularly testy ones like me, risk the rejection uh loved ones. Case in point: My parrot, Socrates, pouted most all weekend because I failed to place clean papers in his cage, a Saturday morning ritual. Never mind that the Sunday bottom liner was stuck inta his cage immediately followin’ delivery, Socrates continued his sulk. Finally, I shamelessly bribed the brooding bird into cordiality with a couple uh crackers.

Thinking of bribes takes me back t’ losin’ it, big time, an’ rippin’ the Saturday paper t’ shreds – unusable for Socrates’ sanitation. I had managed to stifle mah ire almost long enough t’ finish an article about uh proposed payment scheme fer uh new Viking’s stadium. And, though I nearly choked at the chutzpah uh the greedy recipients uh that proposed public largess, “… the Vikings suggested they weren’t happy about … a sales tax on luxury boxes,” I just plain blew my stack over readin’ the little plumb suggested fer that New York carpet-bagger (Viking owner and real estate developer), buried in the article’s final paragraph.

Seems the legis late your is considerin’ an exemption uh sales taxes on stadium materials; accordin’ to the Revenue Department, that figures to be somewheres between 18 and 29 million dollars – but uh course the proposed sales tax on clothing could ease that little give-away. But that’s not all, the “bill doesn’t require … property taxes on the stadium and related properties, which would shift the tax burden to other properties.” … Like the rest of us.

I wonder how many crackers it took to float that idea?



Last week, Ah mighta expressed mah unhappiness ’bout our present crop uh elected o fish shills when the guy behind me in the food-shelf line surprised me by usin’ one uh Uncle Morton’s two-bit words.

“You’re a real curmudgeon, ain’tcha? Here these nice folks is helping us with free eats and you’re moaning about the government not doing more for ya. ”

“I got lots t’ complain about, pilgrim, an’ … not sure Ah can afford the gover mint doin’ much more fer me.”

“Well, ya sound pretty cantankerous t’ me.”

“Listen, friend, Ah’ve  survived the follies of uh slew uh political generations an never murmured uh word about it, but Ahm plain fed up with them Washington beercrats throwin’ my taxes away on pork barrels and foreign potent taters. Fer that, Ahm entitled t’ a little “cantankory.”

“Hey, Ah’ve lived within mah means and tried t’ save for my retirement years. Then them high-livin’ politicians has managed t’ “save” wall-street bankers (with my tax dollars) while reducin’ interest rates that get me back next t’ nothing on my savings. Then Ahm told my Social Security is an “entitlement” –  guess my contributions over the years was just monopoly money. An while they’s spoutin’ all that sanctimony about savin’ an’ entitlin,’ the President Pro Tempore of the U.S. Senate, uh … name sounds like a cattail got crossed with uh muskrat … uh … Hairy Reed, he demands, and received, more of my tax dollars fer the vital National interest uh the northern Nevada Cowboy Poetry Festival. Shucks ‘pardner,” had I only known, I could have stopped by uh friend’s stable and picked up a donation fer the event – in real cowboy currency.

“In a nutshell, it’s mainly those dadratted political pickpockets that’s responsible fer my “curmudgeonousness … bottom line: Ahm gonna do all the curmudgeonin’ I want … … while it’s still legal.”



f they’d really been serious about finding Chronic Wasting Disease, wouldn’t they have looked at the State Legislature?