October 2, 2012
Dear Steve:
I'm not sure if this will do any good, as you haven't ever paid attention to me before, despite that I've consistently offered you nothing but the best of advice and counsel with nothing but the purest and noblest motives in mind; advice and counsel that if heeded, would've saved you a great deal of misery and anguish.
I know you read what franksolich says, but it doesn't get any further than the outside of your skull.
As fellow Nebraskans, we're obligated to prop each other up, to make each other look good even when we're falling flat on our face, and I swear, with no qualms at all, on the Head of St. John the Baptist, that the motives were pure and noble.
Unlike when franksolich deals with non-Nebraska primitives.
Steve, there's going to be a new award this year, during the contest for Top DUmmies of 2012, the "Steve Dawes Award," to complement the "William Pitt Award"--we'll have the "Willie" and the "Steve."
If you happen to be the first winner of the "Steve," I suppose it's okay for me to reveal that the award will be a long list of examples the past year and a half, where franksolich out of the goodness of his own heart and his sense of "oneness" with all Nebraskans, advised and counseled you to take a certain course of action so as to avoid perils and pitfalls. Perils and pitfalls which I then described to you.
In every single case, no exceptions, you blithely ignored the advice and counsel so magnanimously offered by your fellow Nebraskan.....and promptly slid into those very same perils and pitfalls I'd described to you.
There are consequences to not paying attention to franksolich, Steve.
So, wearily, I'm going to one more time offer you well-meaning advice and counsel, your last chance. If you don't take it this time, I'll have to regretfully conclude you're hopeless and not worth the time, energy, and hopes. You'd be the very first Nebraskan, Steve, on whom I've ever given up in my life.
The first thing you need to do, Steve, is settle down and quit chasing rainbows, your relentless pursuit of a free ride via disability claims or sitting on the Bellevue City Council or being a well-paid big shot in your union. If chasing rainbows were a calorie-burning exercise, you'd be as fit-and-trim as Twiggy, Steve.
You're almost 56 years old, Steve; there isn't that much time left before you get your free ride whether you want it or not, your social security retirement check and the generous pension the taxpayers of Omaha promised you.
A lot of people, Steve, have worked a lot longer and harder and gotten a lot less.
Just go to work every day, and on time, Steve, humbly and diligently applying yourself to your chores, being obedient and respectful of your bosses, cooperative with your co-workers, and the nine years remaining until your retirement gravy-train pulls into the station to pick you up, will melt away faster than butter on a hot tin roof.
And the Omaha police department, when you retire, might even engrave your name on a memorial plaque posted near the front door of their offices, noting memorable past employees, for future generations to stop, read, and contemplate on what they owe all those who came before them.
A lot of people, Steve, have worked a lot longer and harder, and gotten less recognition, if any at all.
And there's your physical health to consider, too; you are doing your granddaughter no favor by being a glutton. She loves "grandpa," and obviously hopes he'll be around for when she can show off her infants to him. Your loving-and-caring granddaughter is still pretty young, though, and that might be a couple more decades down the road, before that happens.
She wants you to stay around, Steve; it beats going out to the cemetery to visit.
And think of poor dear Marta, who's carried the enormous load of raising a family--yourself included--while bringing home the bacon during your 35 years of marriage. True, you've contributed a few 99-cent bags of Frito-Lay's fried pork rinds once in a while, but poor dear Marta's obviously done 99% of the blood, sweat, toil, and tears.
I dunno how big you really are, Steve, even though I've seen you in real life one time; I'm just not good at estimating the size and distances of things, I guess. But it seems to me you're about the same size as the Las Vegas Leviathan, which isn't good.
You may insist, "oh, but Marta loves to cuddle; she loves a big soft teddy bear."
The problem is, Steve, you're no big soft cuddly teddy bear; you're a human being who sweats, eats, digests, burps, belches, farts, pisses, excretes, which involves exuding a lot of unsavory stenches and odors. It can't be pleasant for poor dear Marta, taking all that in during your moments of intimacy.
You owe a lot to poor dear Marta, Steve, and you can best demonstrate your gratitude to her by shouldering most of the load of the family needs, lifting that burden off her overstrained back--and by considering her own sensibilities and sensitivities, including those of not having a fat slob for a husband.
One other thing you need to do, Steve, is take a folding lawn-chair, or at least one of those collapsible canvas-and-aluminum campground seats, and sit out at the cemetery in front of the graves of your parents, contemplating upon all that they gave you, sacrificed for you, and begging their forgiveness for having been such a sordid, wastrel son.
Your little granddaughter and poor dear Marta will thank you, Steve, if you take franksolich's sage advice and counsel.
(s) your fellow Nebraskan, franksolich
