House of Eratosthenes

Caboose You know what a caboose is, don’t you? It’s a railroad car that has a front hitch but not a back one. It’s supposed to come last behind everything; what is in all those other cars, and however many other cars there are, matters not one bit. The caboose takes precedent over nothing; it is physically impossible for it to come before anything.

The word “caboose” is also slang for your ass. It is the part of the body upon which we are designed to do our sitting, because it is designed to withstand abuses that other bits of us cannot. Like pressure upon a jagged surface, or the cold. A good kickin’ when we may perhaps deserve it. If your caboose exudes something, it is something of which you will want to get rid, in a hasty sanitary fashion. This post-digestive matter is something for which you will have no use at all, safe as a fertilizing compound, and not very often as that. On our bodies as well as in the train, the caboose must come last for it is physically impossible for it to take any other place. It demands priority over, precisely, nothing.

Why I use such a vulgar analogy to describe where the War on Terror, today, is something upon which I cannot expound without delving into a wonderful thing I did once. I was thirty-eight. I had no wise decisions in life to my credit…or very, very few. I was newly single and shopping for a woman. I’d spent my life in relationships that were unsatisfactory to me…although how, exactly, I was not really in a good position to say. I knew my life was in tatters because of a long succession of such relationships that didn’t quite work, and much of this had to do with finances. We do have this rule in our society that when you’re a man, and you enter into a relationship and leave it again, it should hit your billfold very hard. I’ve noticed we don’t seem to be quite so intent on the objective of seeing to it debts are settled and obligations are met, as we are on this other objective of seeing to it the man is left with nothing. People are dealt with fairly and man walks way with money — not good. People are left in the lurch but the man’s been properly cleaned out — aw, well, that’s okay.

So I was determined to make sure the next one would pan out okay. But how? My dating prospects showed little contrast to my past experiences.

Well, the first step to solving any problem is — definition. That was undeniably the first step…although, equally undeniably, not the last. I had to define what I was trying to avoid. That seems easy at first; I wanted to avoid women who were needy & greedy. I wanted to avoid mean women. Well, who doesn’t? But more definition was needed. “Greed,” after all, is a word that has no definition. No, really it’s true. There’s no way to define greedy. It’s in the eye of the beholder. A woman thinks she’s got something comin’ to ‘er — well, maybe she does. Who’s to say otherwise? And mean. What’s mean? Everybody gets cross and cranky here and there. What’s over the line?

But one by one, without this definition I still managed to walk away from candidates. They had that hard edge to them…that “man-bashing” screechy undertone. Something told me from the back of my head that a life with them would be a life lacking the happiness I was seeking. So I acted on instinct.

In short, I became very woman-like in the way I screened out my dates. I declared someone was incompatible with me, without really being able to explain why.

Maybe women are comfortable doing that. I wasn’t. So the definition chore beckoned.

And eventually, I found the perfect question to ask my dates. I ended up with someone who is a dream come true, so there must be something to this.

It is exactly what is wrong with women today. Available women, in America, anyway…

…and it is exactly what is wrong with all the people seeking election to President of the United States, minus one or two of them.

The question I began to ask, was this:

What, in your life, do you have going on that is less important than your man?

You only have to date women for a little while, as a single, available man, to see what a great question it is. Strike up a conversation with a bachelorette sometime and talk about what she wants to talk about…in America. Let her drone on and listen to the crap that comes out. My man must learn to live with my parents…with my friends…my kids…my ex-spouse…my doggy, my shopping habits, my solid-purple room decorating scheme, my Cabbage-Patch doll collection. What is more important than the stud, is a list to which she seems to live for the purpose of lengthening.

I came to realize women were more interested in me, when I had interests that were definite. And this was it. What takes priority over your man…you just keep babbling away sister, and I have to visit the li’l boy’s room. Maybe I’ll be back. But what I really want to know is — what takes a back seat to your man?

It was the perfect definition. I wasn’t demanding single mothers hike to the top of a mountain, and like Abraham slaughter their younglings to show their reverence for the Morgan God. I wasn’t even demanding that I come first, nor was I dictating how many or how few things might take precedence. I wasn’t calling out what, exactly, must be neglected for my sake. But I was dictating that something should — or else, let’s call the whole thing off. We’re not a match. Just show a car goes in the train behind me, and that therefore I’m not a caboose.

Unfair? Let’s agree to disagree if that’s the case. It should be noted, should anybody be so dense as to have a need for it to be noted…a woman’s “train” is several orders of magnitude longer than a man’s. Take it from a former caboose. Bringing up the rear on a woman’s train is a raw deal. Men are simple. An outdoor adventure here and there, good hot food, cold beverages, the making of happy memories with our families and a sexual favor now and then — we are DONE. We’re happy campers. Women…geez louise. That train stretches out forever. To be at the back of that train, is virtual suicide. It is to authorize, if not implement, your own slow destruction. A zillion and one women may demand this — that doesn’t obligate all men to consent to it.

And to say “I shouldn’t come last” is only reasonable. It’s simply what self-respecting people do.

It’s breathtaking how many heartless brittle sadistic shrews this weeded out. Ninety-nine percent or so…the right 99%.

I ended up with a real gem. I treasure the day I met her. And now I look back and I think — well, Whisky Tango Foxtrot. That was easy.

But this goes well beyond the dating world. Too many among us are intent on killing things slowly, without admitting we want to kill them…like some of our more acidic man-bashing bitches want to destroy men. Without admitting this is what they want to do.

By prioritizing the desired target behind everything. Like a caboose. Where, surely, it will be denied the nourishment that will give it life, until it dies.

This is what we’re doing with the War on Terror. To admit anyone is against it would be a disgraceful thing — and yet, surely, from what we’ve seen for the last six years, many among us are viscerally against it. Some of us with the best of intentions, worried about civil liberties. Some of us are hippy peaceniks who think it was a wonderful thing back in the 1960’s, when crooks gained so many (previously undiscovered) constitutional protections against cops, that the crook-over-cop triumph become commonplace and the law became useless. They want to see the terrorists elevated to that status, just so they can relive the Age of Aquarius, nostalgically. Some are worried about being caught by the Patriot Act with a doobie in hand; they figure laws against drugs are okay, as long as those laws are not actually enforced.

Some are antisemitic. Obviously, they can’t admit that is what they are, so they couch their antisemitism in vague but incendiary terms…something to do with America helping Israel drop bombs on defenseless Palestinian babies. Call this the “Helen Thomas Brigade,” I guess.

Some worry, perhaps with some justification, about pumping money into the military-industrial complex. More…vastly more, from where I sit…simply don’t like to see government money going into anything that is “paramilitary” friendly. These are the hateful loons that call the Boy Scouts a “hate group.”

And some simply have some more social programs to sell us. An expansion of Social Security here, a brand new childhood learning disability, freshly discovered, there. All demanding money. And gosh darn it, it’s just so much harder to sell to us when there are still body bags coming in to Dover. When we learn of a noble warrior who lost his legs to an IED and wants to re-enlist when he doesn’t have to, because he believes in the cause…it’s just tough to get worked up about the “lock box” issue and all those related issues.

And we have the people who have crossed the second milestone toward insanity, using their feelings to solve problems instead of their thoughts. Surely you’ve noticed this about people by now — when they use feelings over thoughts, they don’t want anybody, anywhere, at any time, under any circumstances, to use thoughts over feelings. Seeing this take place makes them unhappy, upset, and very, very nasty.

So about 85 or 90 percent of our presidential candidates, are behaving the same way as 99% of the available dating women. Their goal is to kill something, but they want to do it without admitting this is what they want to do. So they “caboosify” the War on Terror. They acknowledge piously that, oh yes, we need to bring justice to the perpetrators of 9/11. But sacrifice nothing — absolutely nothing — for this. It is the caboose. It is to come last.

We shouldn’t let them get away with it. We should be asking them the same question I asked those nasty battleaxes three years ago, the last time I was available for my next match-up.

What, if anything, takes a back seat to this thing you claim is important to you? The War on Terror has importance superior to, and demanding the sacrifice of…what?

If that’s an empty list, you’re perfectly entitled to your opinion. Just come on out and admit it, that’s all I ask. Let’s not waste our time with each other. Not under false pretenses, anyway.

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- House of Eratosthenes | 12/10/2007 @ 11:22
Ah, Morgan. I wish we lived a bit closer, coz I sure would like to sit down and have a beer or six with you and discuss women. I know your main point was about the GWOT…but you captured and held MY attention with your caboose analogy vis-a-vis women. Nice one, that.

I’m glad you got the relationship thing sorted out and working. As for me, I’ve about given up. 98.3% given up…so ALL hope isn’t lost, just nearly all of it. At this point in life the risk/reward equation where women are concerned is seriously out of balance. I’ve come to the conclusion it ain’t worth the effort.

If you had some sort of time-machine and journeyed back into the past and read my words to me ten years ago I’d have laughed in your face. There was a point in time where life without a woman was simply inconceivable. Now life WITH one is equally inconceivable.

Strange, that.
- Buck | 12/10/2007 @ 14:59
You know, I have a good friend — a woman — but we go way back to when we were kids, who is having this same problem with a man — one she’s married to. She comes last.

I understand that habitually dating the wrong sort of woman can skew your perspective … there are a lot of men out there that suck just as badly, simple as we may be in general. There are spoiled men out there. I think she has one.

So I pointed her to your “caboose” analogy. I think it fits. The rest of the “women are so much harder to deal with than men” she would probably find a bit hard to swallow… but the whole “caboose” thing is perfect.

Maybe there are just more spoiled girls than spoiled boys — due to the cultural idea that women need protecting more than do men. At least that might have been true in our generation. But I think that’s changing. And not in the “fewer spoiled girls” direction, either, if you know what I mean.
- philmon | 12/12/2007 @ 12:14
Oh yes, us guys can be jerks. I haven’t dated any guys, but this is kind of like that whole swimming in a vat of used-food…don’t need to have experience doing it, to know it wouldn’t be any fun.

I didn’t mean to let guys off the hook. I probably would have benefited by including < yet another paragraph clarifying my intended meaning. Because the female train is undeniably much longer, there is a subtle seduction going on here; a damsel inserting another car or two in front of the caboose, seems perfectly natural. And so the inexperienced guy will put up with it, and the lady doesn’t even realize she’s doing it to him.

Call it the “Rapunzel’s luggage” dilemma. Hmmm…Rapunzel’s luggage. I like that. I like it a lot, I think. Very inspiring fella you are, Phil.
- mkfreeberg | 12/12/2007 @ 13:04

swimming in a vat of used-food…don’t need to have experience doing it, to know it wouldn’t be any fun

Not only rolling on the floor laughing, but also pounding my fists, screaming for mercy from my cramped belly muscles.

I didn’t think you meant to let anyone off the hook. Just going further for the most consisely correct “general case”… like any good programmer 😉

And of course I’m thinking out “loud” here (which means I could be full of bunk!). I was pretty much suggesting that this has much to do with expectations, and that perhaps the reason behind more women being in the “caboosifying” business is that more of them, in general, get taught to expect to be the center of the universe (high expectations of where they should rank in the world). I’m just suggesting they’re not born that way, it’s learned. And as time goes on, more and more boys (consistent with your “girlification” of men theory) are being just as spoiled and grow up exhibiting the excact same behavior pattern.

We don’t notice it as much because 1) we never dated men, and 2,3) most of the men we hang out with are from our generation and/or have our outlook on life — which means they weren’t spoiled. Or by some miracle they were once but got over it.
- philmon | 12/12/2007 @ 15:51

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CabooseSunday, December 9th, 2007

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Sunday, December 9th, 2007