My dad use to tell my older brother that he would win every race if he just ran it on his lips.

Our family has never been short on sarcasm or smack-talk. When we played sports, there was always someone bristling mad.
From the outfield of the little league ball-park you’d hear, “Hey batter batter, hey batter batter, hey batter batter, swing!”

That was probably the mildest of psych outs, but it was the beginning of a kind of sportsmanship which has been culled alongside all other types of conducts that might lead to someone’s panties ending up in a bunch.

I recently attended a church service where the preacher suggested that sarcasm be eradicated from child rearing. In a perfect world, that may be for the best.
I mean, someone has to point out the principles of perfect living if we’re ever going to make it there.

But, if that place ever exists, you can chalk up good writing, art, and all other forms of self-expression to devil worship because, I can tell you from experience,

“If I never broke a tennis racket or got miffed at my sister for always getting the lesser punishment, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

Sarcasm adds color!
Does it make people feel bad when the color then gets pointed out? Do some people get pissed?
Yeah, maybe. But, it also makes them think.
My friends and I were black and white, not blind! So, we jonesed on each other in friendly ways. Though the world would like to blind everyone in order to level the playing field and eradicate losers in the name of curtailing negative emotions.
Go ahead! But say good bye to good ole fashion tact, forever!
At least losing is only temporary.

Albeit, being on the losing end of a good burn doesn’t offer any instant gratification, but hatching the perfect comeback a moment too late adds to your arsenal for later.

But where’s the compassion?
As far as I’ve been able to tell there is something called evolution. The strong survive and such and such. And yes, it is sad that some people get less in the brains department than others, but the same happens in the looks arena, too.

There’s always gonna be winners and losers. That’s life!

As much as we try and quaff the design of evolution by inciting socially acceptable behavior and promoting inclusiveness and a care for all living things (no matter how hair-brained), the beast of crushing defeat will always rear its ugly head.

Yet, we still try and sideline it!
All that’s gonna happen is, sarcasm is going to be bound to the big screen and anyone who has half a brain will migrate to the entertainment industry where it’s allowed.
Everyone else will end up us some numb nuts Socialist. Bocking and pecking like chickens in a hen house.
Living a black and white version of life while hiding their red-faces, filled with envy over those who are making millions acting like they only dream.

Wit or Dimwit?

That’d be a good name for a board game where you’d have to draw from a stack of insults, and the person who has the best comeback or handles it with the most tact wins.
Or Psych-out, another good title.

I can remember my father yelling to my brother after he’d performed a flawless lob over the net during a tennis championship,

“That’s right, Son. Psych him out!”
Dad had been referring to the other kid getting pissed off after missing the pansy lob which may or may not have happened had my brother not been cussing after every shot he’d missed thus far.
I tend to think the other kid may have remained calm had my brother not set the stage.
Classic Psych out maneuver.

Come on. Bring back good ole John McEnroe!

Why do people get so pissed?

I mean, it really rubs you wrong when you just barely don’t achieve what you know you can. Or maybe it just pisses you off that you wasted your time trying to begin with?

That’s why I eventually waned from competitive sports. Too much built in disappointment. But, running was cool. It was just me, myself, and I. Best part was, I could always look at my watch, or feel the freedom in my lungs and legs to gauge whether I was getting better or not.

Because, that’s what really mattered to me. Was I (me) getting better?

A 5k is a good way to tell. You run it faster every time so that you don’t spend so much of your time doing it and have more time for other things.
You see improvement. You gain confidence.

Writing is the same. You just do it, and keep doing it.

Just like being able to look back at old PR’s on your mile or ten mile run, I can look back at all my old garbage that I was writing ten years ago. I can see improvement.
It builds confidence.

Literally, I can look back at ‘A Turtle Dove’ and go, “Jesus, that was bad. Don’t want to go back there! Better keep writing.”
Should probably retire that one.

Having Skills; my dad calls them party tricks.

I guess that is important to me.
And because I can point this out to myself I bet there are a lot of people out there the same as I am. I don’t know what it is about skills that taper off if you don’t use them, but those are my obsessions.

They’re like living things. My kinda pets.
You have to nurture them so they don’t die off. Gotta run, do martial arts, write, stretch, juggle.
If making money were a skill that I could nurture, I would be all set.

A pet 401k maybe?

Run like the wind.

I suppose I could look at my affinity for solitary activity in two ways. On one hand maybe I’m just afraid of losing? Or perhaps I like to consider myself an underdog for life.

Let’s face it. There’s always gonna be someone better out there. Someone who has been practicing a single skill since birth. Those guys are true miracle workers. The single-minded.

I’ve got too many interests to ever master anything in particular. But I can run and I can write. Both hobbies have the same effect on my longevity.

Both rely on being long-winded.

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but not here.
That would just be weird.

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Jay Horne is an author and publisher out of Bradenton, Florida. As a father, he enjoys writing teen and young adult.
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