The Old Option

I had another epiphany while peeling the final six logs on my house addition. My frequent wow moments occur because I am amazed by the tiny things most people dismiss as routine. It is great having a simple mind. For the finishing trim on my new dining hall I chose densely limbed tree tops as the branches can either be cut flush leaving luxurious dark knots, or they can be left longer as pegs on which to hang western memorabilia. For reasons subdivision folk will never understand, I wanted to give my new mess hall the rustic feel of sitting in a barn. A busted sawbuck packsaddle tree hangs from one branch; the casualty of my father backing the pickup through the barnyard by Braille. Scanning the rearview mirrors to avoid obstacles is useless in the ranch pickup as my mother tore the mirrors off while backing through the timber several years previously. She found the pickup slips right through the forest once the mirrors are ripped from the doors.

On another peg hangs a collection of rusted steel traps; perhaps one of the very traps with which I, as an eight-year-old boy caught the predator skunk which had been decimating our chicken flock. I would have lost that battle had it not been for the valiant efforts of my younger brother, Blaine, and this story is detailed in Volume II of Ramblings of a Conservative Cow Doctor. Fifty years later, when he gets wet, Blaine still smells like a skunk.

Next to the traps hangs a bridle with a bit made by my father-in-law when he was in high school. He is a fairly skilled craftsmen and he designed the shanks to resemble the profile of a nude female leg. I believe it to be an accurate rendition of beauty standards of the late 1940s, but it is hard for me to reconcile a post-war baby boom with women whose legs look like grazing bits.

Sorry, I rambled a little, now back to my logs. My shoulder muscles burned as I sliced the drawknife through the biggest branches; a repetitive action to which I am conditioned. This yearlong project has knocked 20 pounds off my frame yielding two obvious benefits: One, crouching down on your hands and knees fertility testing bulls is much easier if you leave your belly back home. Two, I am running faster than any time in my life. Out of curiosity, I pulled up old race results and compared my current running pace to other age groups and this sparked my epiphany. Growing older is mandatory; getting old is optional.

Setting aside obvious exceptions, many aging changes begin by choice. God designed humans with incredible adaptive features and as German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche said “That which does not kill you makes you stronger.” When we overload our system it begins to fail, so if you worship at the altars of the fork, sofa and television you will get old far before your time. By extrapolating from my race data I created a theorem suggesting every pound above your ideal weight adds a year to your perceived age. For example, a 45-year-old who is 20 pounds overweight will feel and run like they are 65. My weight-to-age model is more a scientific fact than man caused climate change; a myth advanced by scientists whose opinion is secured by the highest bidder. If your political beliefs stem from the liberty side of the spectrum you should take my theorem seriously because your life is about to be turned upside down.

The recent IRS scandal shows the ruling class will unequally apply tax law so as to crush opinions outside state approved thought; an oppressive technique soon to be applied to healthcare. Once they have squashed America’s current medical care delivery system; replacing it with Obamacare, the ruling class will completely own the unwashed. As demonstrated in the VA scandal, who is treated, how they are treated, who lives and who is steered towards government assisted suicide will be decisions handed down from the health boards of the IRS. If you are a freedom-loving, Christian conservative you best enter this progressive train wreck in top physical condition or you will never make it out alive.
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