Sunday, November 17, 2013

THE MAN LUNCH: PASS THE TESTOSTERONE ... PLEASE!

Twice this week I had to stop busking because of the rain.  This is a first, my being drenched while busking in mid-November.  I can dress for wet weather, but rain will wreck my guitar.  Alas, I must concede that my busking, for practical purposes, shall have to cease until springtime, save for the couple of mercenary days this week I plan to sling my guitar during the Grey Cup celebrations.

And there will be celebrations!  The Regina City Square Plaza is covered with one big tent that is street wide and two blocks long.  All the rooms in all the Regina hotels are booked.  And so are all the rooms in surrounding rural hotels booked.  Hundreds of bedrooms in private residences are for rent. On Kijiji I read that these bedroom rental rates range from a palatial $1000 dollars per weekend to a paltry $60 dollars per night -- but must like dogs.

Back to busking

FACT:  At the beginning of this week, with the above zero temperatures, I had decided that the Fates were being exceedingly kind … until these same Fates rained on my CHAUCERIAN PARADE! 

This is no joke.  It takes a real man to strum in the rain.  Whaaat?  Not to worry, dear reader … This line is but a segue into my sexist topic for today, THE MAN LUNCH.

‘Tis sad and true that around my workplace it takes more than a pair of cojones to connote manhood.  At my workplace a real man must attend THE MAN LUNCH.  THE MAN LUNCH signals a moment of machismo, manly guys doing a manly thing for just one hour each Friday noon hour.

As members of THE MAN LUNCH we range in age from the virile to the viagral … PASS THE TESTOSTERONE, PLEASE!

As members of THE MAN LUNCH we are geeks; we are gear-heads. We are baronial; we are benighted and bandersnatch.  We are plump; we are fit.  We are bald; we are barbate.  We are a police officer, and a pipe fitter; a hunter and a hockey referee; a welder and a jail guard; an artist and computer analyst; a carpenter and salesman; a guitar luthier and … a busker!


During THE MAN LUNCH we eat pizza, of which we do not eat gluten free or pineapple, and we do not eat chicken teriyaki or spinach and feta.

Our purpose for THE MAN LUNCH is purely recreational – it is a fun-filled meat feeding frenzy. For just five dollars apiece we can eat all the pizza we want of ALL MEAT (bacon, pepperoni, ham, salami, ground beef), BACON DOUBLE CHEESE BURGER (beef, onions, bacon), or THE INFERNO (pepperoni, beef, mushrooms, onions, BANANA PEPPERS).

And why did we pick pizza for our menu?  Because real men festinate to pizza for the same reason they festinate to women – NO I WON'T GO THERE. (Rob Ford, the now infamous MAYOR OF TORONTO went there last week and look where it got him!) 

All the men who gather at THE MAN LUNCH know the code:
No Crying & No Complaining about the pizza or the warm cans of Coca-Cola. 
All members of THE MAN LUNCH must be a man … must be a staffer … must eat meat!

At THE MAN LUNCH we discuss mainly the manly things in life.
Being teachers, we discuss educational policies -- NOT.
We discuss teaching methodologies -- NOT.
We share lesson plans – NOT.
We ridicule particular students – NOT.
We ridicule particular teachers of the other gender – NOT.
We drool over particular zaftig persons of the opposite sex – NOT ... ermaybe.
We discuss flivvers and tires – YES … and guns – YES ... and babes and boobs – NOT … ermaybe.

During THE MAN LUNCH we do NOT sing – we zing … between sound bites (pun intended) we loudly zing one another and loudly laugh at one another.  For certain we are poetasters.
During THE MAN LUNCH we discuss meat pizzas, the color of floor hockey pucks, and the NFL.

And why would any man attend such a lunch? 
Without a moment of thought (being the typical male) I can right away list three perfect reasons:

  1. To strengthen our public virility (by job description we are kindly care-givers).
  2. To relive our virility (or lack thereof). 
  3. To succumb to peer pressure (If he does not attend … he cannot stand among the men.)

As our doppelganger selves we are just real and ordinary teachers;  as our real selves we can unprofessionally present our manliness just one noon hour a week at THE MAN LUNCH.  I’m thinking that The Man Lunch is but a simple reprieve from our mundane workaday socialist selves in a typically gender-neutered work environment.

During THE MAN LUNCH we are truly a brotherhood.  During THE MAN LUNCH we are a gathering of grunts.  (In fact, if it weren’t for the sex, I could very well be gay because I love hanging around guys … so sayeth the hunter who is still amongst us.)

During THE MAN LUNCH we are but  …
a breed of sublimated carnivores under the bromosexual sun!



Sunday, November 10, 2013

... EXCEPT ME: ANOTHER BUSKOLOGICAL ONEVERSATION

My favorite NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE scout, BRAD HORNUNG, suggested that my blog entry for this week be called … EXCEPT ME.  He suggested this because I am such a perfect critic of things and events (a glamorized self-description), and in most of my rants I am an eddy swirling in solitaire.

I shall begin with some everyday lunch discussion at my workplace.

It seems everyone (in a very general sense) where I work loves the television series, Game of Thrones, and also the series, The Walking Dead.  

Game of Thrones, set in continents quite like those in Medieval Europe, is a story of high fantasy with a few characters that I quite like:  Sean Bean as King’s Hand Ned Stark; Emilia Clarke as dragon-lass Daenerys Targaryen; Peter Dinklage as Tyrion Lannister; Gwendoline Christie as Brienne of Tarth.

Ned Stark had his handsome head chopped off early in the series.  Emilia Clarke, the dragon mistress, has become Queen of the Dragons.  Peter Dinklage, the dwarf prince is low in stature and high in intellect. Gwendoline Christie, the 6’3” female warrior, is indeed, my high fantasy, the phrase with which I opened this oneversation.

Game of Thrones, being fanciful, comprises the mythical creatures of dragons and White Walkers.

Normally I love the medieval setting for certain movies. Two of my favorites, The Name of the Rose and Rob Roy, had just such a setting.  However, I do not like fantasy, and this is probably the simplest reason I do not like Game of Thrones.

Everyday around my lunch table these Thrones Drones chat and dissect the latest episodes of these corny kindergarten kingdoms.   Everyone … except me.

The Walking Dead is an American horror drama about a remnant of characters living in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse.  The weekly dilemmas these characters face while surviving in a hostile world are centered mainly on killing the zombie hordes and, secondarily, on killing other predatory human survivors.

I’ve tried watching The Walking Dead more than a couple times.  To me it’s same ol’ same ol’.  I should mention that I do enjoy zombie movies (Fido, The Crazies, Zombie Land, Resident Evil, and Shawn of the Dead), but not The Walking Dead.

Everyone around my lunch table is a Walker Gawker.  Everyone … except me.

My Everyone … except me is prevalent, too, in other areas of my day-to-day regimens:  my costume, my wheels, my home, my team, my retirement, my dreams for my children, and my busking aspirations.

My costume:
Practically every day I wear a pair of blue jeans with either a black shirt or a white shirt.  This is not the regular sports jacket and tie habiliment of most teachers.  I buy all my black shirts at Madame Yes, and buy all my white shirts at Colin O’Brien’s Man Shoppe, both establishments being in downtown Regina, and both establishments being a five minute walk from my residence.

One of the reasons (I think, perhaps, the principal reason) I choose only shirts that are black or white is because I am color blind.  And then it doesn’t matter.  I never have to fret over color match or mismatch.  This costume quite simplifies my life and (I could be suffering the Imaginary Audience here) has become my noted signature attire.

Everyone likes lots of color in garments.  Everyone … except me. 

My wheels:
Most of my acquaintances own their vehicles.  Most times I lease my vehicle.  Most of my acquaintances believe that leasing is just a waste of money because when you actually borrow money to buy a car, usually a loan of four years; you actually have something of value.  At the end of leasing for four years, you’ve nothing

Here are my reasons for leasing:  First, I love new cars (I always lease an Acura), and I like to drive in comfort and always under a warranty.  The difference between driving an expensive Acura TL or ILX compared to a flivver cannot be described, aptly, in a qualitative fashion in this type of a blog.

And second, people who purchase vehicles say that once their vehicle has been paid for, they own something of value.  To this I agree, but the value of a four or five year old disposable vehicle is worth only whatever you can get for it.

When it comes to vehicles, most everyone prefers ownership over leasing.  Everyone … except me.   
My home:
Most everyone loves to have a backyard, a personal rectangular or pie-shaped kingdom in which to play and admire.  Not me.

When my kids were little we lived in lots of different houses, some old, some we built brand new.  When kids are little, it is really nice to have back yard for throwing barbeques and baseballs.  Yards, to me, are for kids.

Since our kids have grown and moved away, I quite love not having a back yard, nor a front yard.  I do not miss trimming the trees and cutting the grass, staining the deck, and shoveling the snow off the walk and driveway.

I live in a condo on the sixth floor of a high-rise building in downtown Regina.  We have 1340 square feet of sun-lit rooms with tall windows and ten foot ceilings.  Our building is solid steel and concrete, and completely sound-proof. 

I love where I’m living but … I could easily rent a broom closet downtown and be just as happy.
Most everyone wants to be a home owner.  Everyone … except me.

My team:
Every Thursday afternoon the puck drops at 4 o’clock for our weekly floor hockey game.  I love floor hockey because of the team spirit and exercise.  When I say team spirit I’m including all the deserved (nick) names we have for one another (March Taller, Cryin’, Zamboni, Stack ‘em, Cherry Lightnin’, Marilyn Monro, Flip Wilson, Hollywood, Fostears, Brittle Bill, Pagan, and Cave-in, to name a few).

When I say team spirit I refer to the flurry of email trash talking on game-day, usually started by Zamboni, and not ending until a dozen or so insults have been sent to reply all.

Of my floor-hockey mates, save for the goal keepers, everyone wants to shoot and score.  As for me, I like to play defense, be that mean and nasty guy who is not much fun to play against. 
Everyone wants to score some goals.  Everyone … except me.

My retirement:
Chatting with some colleagues just yesterday, I am reminded what most teachers are planning for their superannuation (eduspeak jargon for retirement).  Most teachers retire after 30 years in the classroom, after which they substitute teach three or so days a week to top up their pension.

As for my own wool-gathering notions of retirement, I have but one plan.  I am not going to retire.  I love what I do.  I do have that dream to operate my own hot dog stand, or to work part-time at a hardware store, or the worst case scenario, be a substitute- teacher.  I can see myself cutting back, eventually, to working half-time, which means two and a half hours a day for a total of 12 and a half hours a week.  This is my plan, should I maintain my verdure of health and vigor.

Most every raddled teacher I know thinks I’m crazy in this regard.  Everyone looks forward to retirement.  Everyone … except me.

My dreams for my children:
Everyone I know who has children wants to be always near them in a literally physical regard.  To be specific I am referring to those who want their children grow into adulthood, land that perfect job in the same city where they grew up and where their parents likely still reside, have a happy family of their own and gather weekly for the Sunday family supper with Mom and Dad.   

Oh wouldn’t that be nice. 

As for myself, I do want my children to live their adventures, explore the planet, and not feel guilty for not wanting to be living just down the block.  
Factoid: Most people marry their high school sweet heart, of which then 50% divorce and marry their workmate the second time around.  
Factoid: Of the billions of people residing on the planet, can you imagine lucky it is to discover your soul mate right there in your high school or right there at your workplace -- So much for the concept of true love.
Factoid: The world, itself, can be for a very select few, the force majeure of wonderment and adventure.

And the same is true for family imaginings.  I agree that everyone wants children who are thriving and to happy forever after. Parents want this for their children, and want this to happen nearby and just down the block.   In my yesteryear when my kids were little, these too, were my thoughts.  

Now in my aged experience, I believe such thinking to be somewhat adorkable.  I believe such thinking to be a rationalized taradiddle of parental subterfuge.   

Everyone has anxiety toward change.   Everyone … except me.

My busking aspirations:
Save for the minus 10 degrees, today would be the perfect day for busking.  Today is the first post-season game for the Saskatchewan Roughriders football club.  The British Columbia Lions are in town to do battle.  Whichever team wins, plays in the semi-final game next week.  And whichever team wins the week after, wins the GREY CUP.

Today, if the Roughriders win, there will be over 40,000 green-and-white fans of the Rider Nation  screaming with joy.  Today, I should be busking down at KINGSWARD entertaining 20,000 of those gleeful melon-heads as they exit the east gate and head for home.

I’ll not be there.  It is just too cold. Shivering cap-a-pie 'neath a burnt out street lamp whilst facing a twenty mile per hour winter wind in a minus ten degree temperature does not appeal to me.  I remind myself that GREY CUP is just a couple weeks away, and the GREY CUP final will be played right here in REGINA, SASKATCHEWAN.  The forecast for the next couple weeks is for unseasonably mild weather.  Over these next two weeks I shall have lots of opportunity to busk.

While I thrum and hum on the sidewalks with my twelve-string and harp, most people suggest that I could be rising to a more popular venue, and most buskers that I know are not-so-secretly hoping to do so.  

Everyone wants a bigger stage.  Everyone … except prosaic me.

Tomorrow is POPPY DAY.  Last year on REMEMBRANCE DAY I wrote about my grandfather, a cavalry soldier in the First World War,  and my father, a North Atlantic sailor, in the Second World war.  And  two years ago on November 11th I wrote about my grandfather, my father, and myself.

Tomorrow I'll be wearing a RED POPPY LEST WE FORGET.
 
IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW BETWEEN THE CROSSES ROW ON ROW ...

And one more war picture:

 I began this blog with a baditude rant on a couple of popular television shows. I’d like to keep writing and ranting but if I do so I’ll miss the next episode of THE GOOD WIFE. 

  
Until next week ... stay tuned!

Marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE for this week I've just one character:
  • Myles was busking in front of MIKE'S INDEPENDENT on BROADWAY.  I placed a can of Red Stripe into in guitar case.  (Myles always give me money when I busk at the Farmer's Market.)
 I'm going to jail December 12th, he told me.  
 For how long? I asked.
I figure for about a year, he replied.
Myles will be headlining a bigger stage.
   


Sunday, November 3, 2013

STRAW DOGMAS: WHO LET THE DOGMATICIANS OUT, WHO LET THE DOGMATICIANS OUT ...

The weather is still warm enough for busking.  Yesterday I performed twice, early afternoon at VALUE VILLAGE, then late afternoon on KINGSWARD after the Rider football game.  

I’d like to acknowledge a couple people in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE for this week:

  • Gary and Steven King, for whom KINGSWARD is named, gave Baron and I loud applause as they passed us during our Rider busk.

  • The perfect stranger who dropped a twenty-dollar bill into my guitar case before I even strapped on my guitar!

  • Krista, the owner-operator of ISLAND LUNCH gave us the perfect Hallowe’en gift, a set of musical spoons.
And speaking of Hallowe'en, I've some concerns fresh on my brain, inside my skull.

Going Blackface to a party is generally perceived as being racist – I get that.  And I get that calling a female, Dollface, is generally perceived as being sexist.  But I don’t get that denouncing a cultural holiday is a self-righteous entitlement.  Rather, it is downright dogmatism.  Let me explain.

Even though Hallowe’en is over for another year, some nonsense surrounding this past Hallowe’en lingers on my mind.  This last Hallowe’en celebrations were cancelled at an Eastern Canadian school because of inclusiveness or lack thereof.  According to the school administrators, some of the students felt left out because their parents would not allow their children to wear costumes.  Be it for religious or reasons otherwise, that choice, not to have their children in costume, pressured the school principal to disallow all students from wearing costumes during Hallowe’en day.  No costumes also meant no candy which meant no fun.  These particular principal and vice-principal in that particular school, bowing to such political correctness nonsense, and those particular intolerant parents forcing such nonsense, are DOGMATICIANS, and we know how doggedly determined these dogmaticians can be.

DOGMATISM is the tendency to lay down principles as incontrovertibly true, WITHOUT CONSIDERATION OF EVIDENCE OR THE OPINION OF OTHERS.

A DOGMATICIAN is one who promotes dogmatism.  A DOGMATICIAN can be disrespectful to my custom.

Granted, Hallowe’en began as Christian dogma, a day dedicated to the dead, the day before All Hallows’ Day, and it could be (but I doubt it) that the parents who do not want their children to dress up and ask for candy, had a quarrel with this originally Christian antic.

Our modern Hallowe’en is an evening of trick-or-treat, complete with costumes and carving pumpkins into jack-o’-lanterns, visiting haunted houses, and watching horror movies.
The real horror of this story, however, is allowing dogmaticians to spoil the party.

All of us should be on the qui vive for such junk yard dogmaticians who want to spoil such holiday celebrations.  All of us need to be dogmatician catchers.

Here is an imaginary (mostly tongue-in-cheek) passel of other holiday examples that could, or have been ruined, by a dogdom of dogmaticians:

NEW YEAR’S
New Year’s Day, January 1st, is the first day of the year on the modern Gregorian calendar.  January 1st, too, is the first day of the year on the Julian calendar, which had been used in the Roman Empire as far back as 45 B.C.
The year officially starts when BIG BEN strikes twelve. 

NEW YEAR’S EVE is typically kissing during a midnight maxixe whilst listening to Auld Lang Syne.

Dogmaticians must be aware that kissing will transport germs, never mind the sexual nature of kissing in public! Auld Lang Syne, a Scottish song, is definitely an affront to the Irish, the English, the French, the Germans, the …

GROUNDHOG DAY
Groundhog Day falls February 2nd in mid-winter.  This is the day when Punxsutawney Phil, from Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, and Wiarton Willie, from Wiarton, Ontario, awaken from their respective naps, leave their respective dens, and observe their respective shadows.  If either groundhog sees his shadow (on a sunny morning), there will be six more weeks of winter.  If either groundhog does not his shadow (on a cloudy morning), the warmth of spring is right around the corner.

Certain dogmaticians must be aware that groundhogs do not present well.  Groundhogs could be offensive to those who would prefer the presence of the beaver or the gopher or even … the prairie DOG.

VALENTINE’S DAY

Saint Valentinus was executed for performing weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry.  Saint Valentinus died for perpetrating the concept of love.

Typically, Valentine’s Day sparks up romance with sweetheart gifts of chocolates, Cupid shooting arrows, and children sending heart-filled cards to their classmates.  Our concept of love suggests that of all the billions of potential love mates on the planet, most of us just happen to find our true loves, our soul mates in our hometowns, and in our rebounds, in our workplaces.  What are the odds!

Valentine’s Day is an affront to those who hate wine and chocolate.  And it’s not fair that for some there is no fair maiden.  So what becomes of the broken-hearted on Valentine’s Day? I say gather together, ye heartless dogmaticians, and march down to Lonesome Town en masse and bark at the heartfelt!

SAINT PATRICK’S DAY

Everyone wants to be Irish on St. Paddy’s Day, a drunken day of parade and green beer served in packed Irish pubs. For those dogmaticians that cannot or will not be Irish, even for one day, I’ve the perfect joke:
What do you call a serpentine something that is approximately a mile long and has several assholes situated three feet apart from the front to the back?
Answer:  A Saint Paddy’s Day parade.

GOOD FRIDAY AND PALM SUNDAY

Good Friday, of course, commemorates the crucifixion of Christ; EASTER SUNDAY, of course, celebrating His resurrection.

EASTER, however, means to the masses (pun intended) the Easter Bunny and Easter egg hunts and colored eggs in baskets.
Maybe I am allergic to eggs.  Besides, why should my government holiday dollars be promoting the egg markets.

APRIL FOOL’S DAY

This is a day of practical jokes and hoaxes.  From the mundane slap the kick-me sign on someone’s back to the sophisticated likes of the BBC news show, The Swiss Spaghetti Harvest, April Fool’s Day has become a laugh a minute from morn until night.

However, the term, fool, is such a subjective and hurtful term, which I find offensive.  Could it be because I am one?

MOTHER’S DAY AND FATHER’S DAY

These two celebratory days honor mothers and fathers respectively and complementary. Typically, mothers get gifts of chocolates and bath soaps (similar to Valentine’s Day); whereas, fathers typically receive gifts of cotton socks and single-malt scotch.

With fifty percent of our modern marriages ending in divorce, fifty percent of our children now belong in blended families.  During Mother’s Day and Father’s day there are lots of gifts for both the biological and step-parents.  This must certainly be confusing, never mind that it adds complication to the increasing economics and budgets of the gift –giving.  Children in blended families, along with children from single-parent families, are buying blended scotches, rather than scotches that are single-malt.

Also, these two days can be especially insulting for those having no kids, and for those kids who hate their parents.

CANADA DAY & INDEPENDENCE DAY
Canada Day is the enactment of July 1st, 1867 which united three colonies into becoming the single country called Canada.

Independence Day (the FOURTH OF JULY) commemorates the adoption of the DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE (independence from the Kingdom of Great Britain).

Typically, this day in Canada and the United States is celebrated with flag waving and fireworks, and picnic and parade and political speech in between.

In Canada we do have those who do not love our country.  Such dogmaticians reside in Quebec.

In America, the dogmaticians seem only to be those who do not like the popping sounds of fireworks, and ever insist that the authorities enforce the municipal by-laws with regard to noise.

LABOR DAY

LABOR DAY celebrates the labor movement, a union driven holiday in both U.S.A. and Canada.  Traditionally, Labor Day marks the unofficial end of summer.  This is a day of picnic and political rallies, and the last long weekend before all students from K to 12, from colleges and universities, head back to school.

Regretfully, these dogmaticians as of late were the members of the Occupy movement, of which most of those members did not believe in work (at least not in my city).  Journalists wanting to interview these public park tent-dwellers had to wait until 10 A.M. for them to rise from their laborious slumber.   
This I know. I live within a thirty second walk to Victoria Park in downtown Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada.

THANKSGIVING

Thanksgiving celebrates the bountiful harvest and cornucopia of life that we are so privileged.  Having turkey stuffing and pumpkin pie on their minds, this is the busiest of travel times for people residing in the United States. 

For the record, I do understand the arguments of the Native American dogmaticians  who demonstrate in march and protest this day each year.

Rather than cranberries, there are dogberry dogmaticians who doth protest that travel by planes, trains, and automobiles, on this day are jammed.

POPPY DAY
The hostilities of World War 1 ended November 11th, 1918.
November 11th, known as both REMEMBRANCE DAY and ARMISTICE DAY, is a day to remember the members of the armed forces who have died in the line of duty; that being, sacrificing their lives to help save the sanctity of our nation.

Poppy Day is filled with veterans on parade, prayers of Lest We Forget, and the poem, In Flanders Fields sounded by every horn blower throughout the Western world.

I must confess, the only dogmaticians not wanting to celebrate our veterans, are those who hate Western world citizens, Americans and Canadians in particular.

CHRISTMAS

CRISTESMAESSE (CHRIST’S MASS) is a religious holiday commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ.  Tradition has the Christ was born in a manger in the town of Bethlehem.  The commercial aspect of Christmas has bright street lights and rosy cheeked children and presents delivered by a ho-ho-ho Santa Claus (SAINT NICHOLAS) riding cross the night sky in his sled pulled by reindeers.

There is a cursed cur of Dogmaticians that have already begun to rid us of our decorated Christmas trees on display in public places, and rid us of the word, Christmas, on every public greeting or card within any public office.

I began this blog in some thoughts on Hallowe’en.  As I was leaving my workplace my buddy, Kevin, told me about an incident at a next-door Hallowe’en office party.  To the ire of others, one of the office staff prance about in Blackface, pretending to be Aunt Jamima, for which she was chastised by her immediate supervisor.   She was ordered to wipe off her blackface, and was then written up for such a blatant display of apparent racism.  The irony of this exchange is that the supervisor, in so doing all of the above, was herself, dressed as a Butch Lesbian.  

But like I said at the beginning of this blog, going Blackface at a party is generally considered to be racist, and I, specifically too, think so.  And, going Butch Lesbian at a party would definitely offensive to some, including me. 

One of the wonderful things about Canadians is that we are an inclusive and welcoming society.  One of the not-so-wonderful things about Canadians is that we are oftentimes willing to sacrifice our own customs and traditions to accommodate the lunatic whims of certain segments in our society.

Alas we are human.  And alas, because we are human we prefer the world to spin our way. Oft times these spins, though nothing more than a momentary bliss, are at the grief and sacrificial expense of others.  What is common sense to the hoi polloi is never the accepted standard for everyone.
The acceptance of dogmatician denouncements is really promoting the disintegrations of our holiday traditions.  The more we acquiesce, the more willing we are to wittingly create a Canadian counter-culture of dogmatism and fanaticism.

This is our weakness, and no one in particular is at fault.  No matter our country or continent, east, west, north, or south, it is in our human nature to be selfish.  We are all hardwired to howl and hound to get our way.  We are all dogmaticians to a degree. Some dog-bane is essential to our existence. We are all wanting to draw the long straw.

Doggonit, it is in our DNA to be fraught with schadenfreude.