you are not the boss of me

I have enough people telling me what to do. Customers, Sheila, friends, family, kids, trades inspectors, and Norman, the MS Word speel checker, just to name a few.…notice I misspelled spell, speel….it drive Norman absolutely nuts. The list goes on and on like an old vinyl album on a turntable with a broken repeat function, stuck at the end of the album and annoyingly hissing at me. To this I like to say….You’re not the boss of me"….under my breath and mostly in my mind. Or just in a blog.

     Truth be told, most people do not really tell me what to do, they make suggestions. They are not annoying; they have my best interest at heart, or mind and truly give a damn about me. Well, I am not so sure about Norman… There are also the few, the lame and the braying jackassery that do not care about me. I lovingly refer to these people as fetterers.
     However, I am a free thinking un-fettered guy. Well, as unfettered as a married guy with a job and responsibilities can be, so in other words fettered. I am just as fettered as anyone that has said, “I do.” Fettered is not a bad thing when it is a conscious, and un-coerced. It just is. I prefer to choose the where, when, and who. Sometimes in life, this is just not possible. Sometimes you have to deal with fetterers. Sometimes I do not get the choice.
     The problem lies with the few people that think they have to be a fetterer. That’s right a fetterer. As described by the JADIP Dictionary of made-up Phrases for the Purpose of Blogging. “A member of the braying jackassery that feel the need to tell you what to do, as if it is a god-given right to order you around like a two-year-old.” Did you guess who I am talking about? If you guessed Sheila, you have not been reading all the words in this blog. She is not the problem here. Neither is Norman.
     Yup, while Sheila may tell me what to do while I am driving, and many other times, like when I am circling a parking lot driving like Stevie Wonder. She does this out of love. The love of bossing me around. Wait a minute. Sheila is a GPS…Again, she is not the problem. And Norman just cannot help himself. He is even less self-aware than Sheila. He too, is not the problem.
     Today, as in many other days I had to deal with the neo-fascists that work at the building department. Talk about a bunch of over paid, over powered underachievers. Total fetters. Think about it. These morons are failed contractors and too tight girdle wearing she-Hitlers. And yet, we have given them the power, nay the jurisprudence to fetter us. Yup Yup!
     These dull normal purveyors of pomposity work about 2.28 hours a week, while drawing a full time salary. I know most of these idiotic interpreters are occupying space at the various village, township, city, or berg where they rule the roost with a big stick in a meaty paw, at least 35 hours per week. Whatever…most of the time they are passing too much methane, taking up space, and using up precious oxygen that could be used by a functioning member of society
     If I hear one more of these comical code enforcers tell me they do not interpret the code, they follow it, I may have to shoot them with the ram-set. If they all use the same national code then why do they all ask us to do different things in different areas? I won’t bore you with all the pithy words of wisdom that they have imparted to me.
     I will tell you this. After I get done kissing their ass, and listening to stories of their grandchildren fishing from the pier, just STFU, and leave the green “pass” sticker. As they walk up the stairs, know this, I flip ‘em the bird and stick out my tongue, and I whisper, “You’re not the boss of me.”

Just another day in paradise