I've got issues

 

 

“My name is Mark and I’ve got some issues!” 

          I love you like the fourth brother I never had. You know that. But, the last thing I need right now is to hear about your gripes. I’ve got enough of my own.

          To begin with, someone or someTHING has been messing with men’s back pants pockets, and I’m tired of it. The final brick landed after I bought two pairs of pants at Sams last week. Sams does not approve of you trying on their clothing inside the store. You’re supposed to buy your pants and keep returning them until you get the right fit. Ingenius! I don’t mind gambling with underwear, but pants? You don’t mess with pants. 

          My new pants fit great, and the fabric is light. Oh, and the pants breathe. It’s rare to find a pair of breathable pants. The only thing wrong with my pants. They are missing a left back pocket, better known as “the wallet pocket”. I didn’t think to check for a wallet pocket when I bought the things. I should’ve had Kay create a distraction so I could’ve tried on the pants.

It was not until I was ready to step out into the world in my new pants that I discovered the massive breach in pant-wear. It happened when I heard a “ka-thunk” sound immediately after inserting my wallet into my missing pocket. After the third try, I noticed the problem. Now my pants are good only for hacking in the house. That’s bad because I only wear shorts in the house. 

During the summertime, I only wear pants to church. I think the law is somewhere in Leviticus. I’m thinking of starting a short-wearing movement for men. In all the pictures I’ve seen of Jesus, he’s not wearing pants. If you scratch this thing, you’re going to see the Pharisees all over it.

          I’ve got eight other big problems, but only have time for one. When I got into the car yesterday morning, the first thing I noticed was the horn blaring as soon as I turned the key on. I immediately removed the key, but the horn continued to blare. The smart thing to do would be to jump into the little car and let Kay handle the horn. She likes challenges. At least I thought she did. This time she ran out and yelled for me quit honking the horn. She almost used an expletive. Horns can do that to a person.

          Nothing else on the car worked. Just the horn. I tried to disconnect the battery, but a crescent wrench was too big to grip the nut-blocker. Five minutes later the horn sound turns into the sound of a doorbell. Not as irritating but still gross.

While I was sweating bullets in the garage, Kay was reading the owner’s manual for our 20-year-old Highlander. She came out and informed me that the key was the problem. It’s got a computer chip in it that identifies itself to the engine. They’re buds. If one doesn’t recognize the other, the thing won’t start.  

          I said, “Really? I know it’s the right key.” -- Kay said, “Well then, you did something wrong with it,” That almost caused ME to say a bad word.  I assured her that I had never abused my Highlander key. The Yaris key? Maybe twice. I then tried Kay’s Highlander key, and the doorbell sound was replaced with the blaring horn.

          After a few more minutes, I managed to disconnect the cable to the battery, which allowed the car to make a snoring sound. I can take snoring over blaring or ding dongs. That’s when Kay told me that I needed to get a new key. She said to get one, I’ll need the code to the current key. “It’s on a tiny metal rectangle thing attached to the key ring.” She said. – “Ah, that thing?” I said, to myself.

Nobody mentioned a purpose for the metal piece, so I removed it and put it in a memorable place. That was back in the time I could remember things. The Highlander manual hinted that without the number, the car would be forever inoperable. It seems like Bob Dylan wrote a song about that.  

          There’s an outside chance that everything will be taken care of between now and the next time we meet. It was Shakespeare who had Cassius declare "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” 

          That’s where I stand right now. I am an “underling” to some of the stuff that’s going down. And, I’ve only shared two of the eight gripes I intended to tell you about. There’s nothing funny about that. -- I take that back. The fourth gripe is kind of funny.  If it doesn’t take care of itself, I may share it later. -- Happy week!

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hayter.mark@gmail.com