D. None of the above

by -
0 408

I didn’t see a horrifying and preventable accident this morning. I didn’t see a little girl, let’s call her Erica, on her way to her first week of school.

Erica, who, in our story, is 10 years old, wants to be a veterinarian, and has pictures of animals all over her room. She begged her parents so long for a kitten that they relented. They saw how well she took care of the kitten, putting drops in her eyes when she needed them, making sure she got the correct shots and even holding her kitten in the office when they had to draw blood to test for feline leukemia, which, fortunately, her kitten didn’t have.

Two years after she got her kitten, Erica continued to ask for additional animals, adding a fish, a rabbit and a hamster to her collection. Each morning, Erica wakes up and checks on all the animals in her little zoo, well, that’s what her father calls it, to see how they’re doing.

Her mother is convinced that the animals respond to her voice, moving closer to the edge of the cage or to the door when they hear her coming. When mother leaves to pick up Erica from school, the animals become restless.

I didn’t see Erica walking with her best friend Jenna. Like Erica, Jenna has a dream. She wants to pitch for the United States in softball in the Olympics. Jenna is much taller than her best friend and has an incredible arm. Jenna hopes the Olympics decides to have softball when she’s old enough and strong enough to play. Jenna thinks bringing a gold medal to her father, who is in the Marines and has traveled the world protecting other people, would be the greatest accomplishment she could ever achieve.

I didn’t see a man, whom I’ll call Bob and who lives only four blocks from Erica and Jenna, put on his carefully pressed light-blue shirt with the matching tie that morning. I didn’t witness him kissing his wife Alicia, the way he does every morning before he rushes off to his important job. I didn’t see him climb into his sleek SUV and back quickly out of his driveway on the dead-end block he and Alicia chose more than a dozen years earlier.

I didn’t see Bob get the first indication from his iPhone 7 that he had several messages. I didn’t witness Bob rolling his eyes at the first few messages. I didn’t see him drive quickly toward the crosswalk where Erica and Jenna were walking. The girls had slowed down in the crosswalk because Jenna pointed out a deer she could see across the street in a backyard. Jenna knew Erica kept an animal diary and she was always on the lookout for anything her friend could include in her cherished book.

I didn’t see Bob — his attention diverted by a phone he had to extend to see clearly — roll too quickly into the crosswalk, sending both girls flying. I didn’t see the ambulances racing to the scene, the parents with heavy hearts getting the unimaginable phone calls, and the doctors doing everything they could to fix Jenna’s battered right arm — her pitching arm.

I didn’t see it because it didn’t happen. What I did see, however, was a man in an SUV, driving way too quickly through a crosswalk, staring at his phone instead of looking out for Erica, Jenna and everyone else’s children on his way to work.

It’s an old message that we should repeat every year: “School is open, drive carefully.”

This Column is reprinted from September 14, 2017 issue.

by -
0 164

Where people live, conflicts thrive.

It’s inevitable. Get two people in a room for long enough and, eventually, they will find elements about the other person that irritate them. It’s what drives people to watch some reality TV shows. Participants can’t stand each other, they call each other names and, before you know it, someone is screaming at someone else and the viewing audience at home is rubbernecking through the drama.

When it happens to other people, it’s entertainment. When it happens to us, it can hurt.

Why do we care what other people think? We know that some people will find fault with everyone — their mothers, siblings and bosses — making criticism inevitable and, ultimately, meaningless.

If someone stood on the side of the road and yelled “Duck!” often enough, pretty soon people would stop ducking, would stop looking for ducks, and, like so many other noises around them, wouldn’t hear the warning anymore.

And yet, when someone we know or even someone we’ve recently met indicates a disdain for us, scowls at our presence, or undermines our abilities, intelligence or effort, we feel cut to the quick. That person might just be repeating the same criticisms to us that he or she levies at everyone all the time.

It’s like a fortune cookie. We read something that says, “You need to think twice before taking advice.” Wow, we think, how incredibly insightful, even as we ignore the irony that we are taking advice from a small slip of paper crushed into a Pac-Man shaped cookie. Someone recently gave me advice that seems valuable, like quitting a job I hate, but maybe that person just wants to take my job or doesn’t want to hear me complaining. Maybe that advice doesn’t really apply to me after all.

The same holds true for insults, criticism and nastiness. It could apply to us or it could just be fortune cookie nastiness, conjured up by someone who may not enjoy the life he or she leads, trying to make everyone as miserable as them.

Insults are ubiquitous. Much of the time, however, the insult is an opinion, not a fact. There are times when an admonishment such as “You weren’t driving well” is accurate, particularly if you were driving the wrong way on a one-way street.

We don’t immediately imagine the person doing the insulting might be sharing an opinion about us that we would almost instantly dismiss if it were about our spouse, our children, our parents or our close friends. We think, “Maybe I am terrible at this,” or “Maybe I should be embarrassed.”

People make puppets, write stories about fictional characters, draw cartoons and imaginary figures because they want to control something.

But just because they want control doesn’t mean you have to give it to them. Even assuming someone doesn’t like you, your appearance or your ideas, so what? Our preferences are so subjective that we can’t or shouldn’t try to please everyone.

We don’t have to play those reindeer games. We can disagree and express our opinions without attacking someone else. We follow whatever rules we set for ourselves and don’t need to fight fire with fire, hit back 10 times harder or show that we mean business. We can be more graceful than our detractors.

When someone attacks us, we don’t have to act as if we’re wearing a target. We can look at that person, put a slow smile on our face and say, “It’s too bad you feel that way. Maybe a good fortune cookie would cheer you up?”

Labor Day offers a chance to consider the division of labor that makes living on Long Island and in the United States so incredible.

Police officers stand ready to protect and serve. They leave their homes with the best of intentions, providing safety, security and order to our communities.

Similarly, firefighters offer an enormous measure of protection for us individually and collectively, racing into burning buildings to save us and keeping fires from spreading to nearby homes.

Members of the military protect our interests and help residents in our communities, country and strangers around the world.

Priests, rabbis, imams and other spiritual leaders encourage us to aspire to greatness, to see beyond our frustration and anger, and to believe in a higher purpose and a grander plan. They bring out the best in us and suggest ways to give our lives meaning beyond meeting our basic needs.

Psychologists and psychiatrists act as handrails for people’s minds and emotions, helping us deal with a wide range of challenges, frustrations and difficulties.

Doctors, nurses and medical health professionals refuse to allow bacteria, viruses or injuries to get the better of us, standing ready to help us fight an infection, determining what that mysterious pain is and, at best, help treat the cause of the disorder and not just the symptoms.

Sanitation workers enable us to keep our homes and communities clean.

Supermarket workers stock the shelves, help us find gluten-free food to manage our growing list of allergies, and make sure they have the specific brand of the milk we buy.

Car mechanics allow us to reach our appointments on time and make it to our children’s concerts.

Teachers feed hungry young minds, encouraging and inspiring the next generation, coming in before school or staying late to will students across another academic finish line.

Beyond offering the welcoming smile at many companies, receptionists wear numerous hats, directing traffic through offices, sending phone calls to the right extension, and knowing how to find anything and everything.

When we maneuver through the purchase of a home, the establishment of a will or the adoption of the newest member of our family, lawyers guide us through each process, becoming advocates for our interests and close confidants.

In the wee hours of the morning, bakers start the process of creating scones, heating up coffee and mixing the batter for birthday cakes.

Truck drivers spend hours on the road, carting all manner of goods, bringing foods or marble we have to have on our kitchen counters.

Ferry workers usher us back and forth on the Long Island Sound to visit family, to take ski trips, to return to college, or to visit sites in Connecticut and farther north.

Plumbers, electricians and structural engineers make sure our homes and offices operate smoothly, preventing a leak from becoming a flood, a spark from becoming a fire or a weak wall from becoming an accident site.

Driven by the desire to inform and to beat the competition, journalists search for news that offers valuable information.

Entertainers of all stripes keep us laughing, allow us to relate to people from other places or times — or take us on fantastic journeys to places in their minds.

Politicians represent our interests, debating and hopefully instituting the best policies for the rest of us.

Numerous others, whose professions didn’t make it into this space, also help our communities function.

While Labor Day is a chance to say “goodbye” to summer, it presents an opportunity to appreciate the hard work everyone performs.

Baseball is missing out on an entertainment gold mine. In most games, the third base coach is practically invisible, wandering in and out of a rectangular box that’s missing its back line.

Indeed, most of the time, the coach isn’t anywhere near lines that were drawn specifically for him. If those lines aren’t necessary, why draw them? And, if they are where the coach is supposed to be, then shouldn’t umpires enforce that rule? What kind of lessons are we teaching our children if the coaches can’t stay between the lines?

Are we telling them it’s OK to leave the lines? Or, maybe, we cleverly imagine that allowing them to stray from their limitations encourages children to exceed whatever limits others put on them — as happens in this space on occasion, but I digress.

No, you see, the third base coach spends an entire game performing: He appears to be simply scratching an itch on his nose, tapping his cap and motioning for sunscreen as he rubs his hand down his arm. Yet those gestures are a series of complicated signals that indicate what the batter and the runners should do before, during or after the next pitch.

Why does every team need to be so restricted and why does the coach’s facial expression always have to look like he’s trying to memorize a phone number written on a blackboard 90 feet away?

We are a creative culture, the endless Hollywood sequels to movies that shouldn’t have been made in the first place notwithstanding. Why can’t we encourage the third base coach to add entertainment and perhaps levity to a sport in which the home audience routinely watches players and managers shove sunflower seeds into their mouth and then expectorate them onto the field of dreams?

I have a few suggestions to bring more eyeballs to the third base coach and, perhaps, away from teams that long ago gave up hopes of a playoff berth. A coach could:

• Attempt to bring his hands together behind his back. Sal, as we’ll call him, could turn his back to the hitter, put one hand behind his back from below while reaching down from above with the other.

• Break into a one-person kick line. Who doesn’t love a great Broadway number? Sal could kick out his leg and raise his hat at the same time.

• Combine line dances. Sal could start with a Macarena, add a second of the wobble and then conclude with the hustle.

• Attempt to start a lawn mower. The coach could bend down as if he were fixing something on the ground and then pull straight up several times, hoping the engine catches.

• Wash his hands. This could serve two purposes: It could signal to the hitter to clean up his swing or mechanics; and it could remind everyone watching about the benefits of good hygiene, all the spitting and rubbing dirt between their fingers notwithstanding.

• Put a leash on an imaginary dog and stroll in place.

• And, finally, Sal could walk around his small box, tapping imaginary heads and then mouth the word “goose” and run back to his original spot.

These are just a few of the ways the forgotten man on the field might spruce up the game a bit. Maybe, if he caused the other team to focus on him enough, he might give his team an edge, allowing a runner on first to break for second as an appreciative pitcher became distracted by a coach’s antics. And, even if it didn’t work, it might bring a few smiles to fans during the dog days of summer.

With great power comes great criticism. The following is a hypothetical diary entry from beleaguered Attorney General Jeff Sessions, who faces routine presidential ire:

I don’t know how much longer I can take this. It’s not fair. Yes, I know my boss is angry, defensive and frustrated, but he’s always picking on me, calling me names. I think he wants to get rid of me.

The other day, he called me “scared stiff” and “missing in action.”

Gosh, that doesn’t sound nice, now, does it?

What’s worse? He didn’t say it to my face: He wrote it on Twitter, where the whole world can see his feelings.

I’ve been turning the other cheek all this time, but I’m running out of cheeks. What can I do?

Maybe I’ll develop a new hobby. I’ll practice that “lock her up” chant that tickles me so. I won’t do it in public. When I’m alone in my soundproof shower, I can say it quietly. I can get a small doll and look down on it, terrifying it the way my boss tries to intimidate me.

I was confirmed as attorney general by a 52-47 vote in the Senate. Now, I know it’s not quite as stunning and exciting as that electoral college win by the guy who keeps insulting me, but it’s still pretty cool and it was a close vote. You don’t hear me telling everyone about the 52 votes I got, the way my boss repeats, all these months later, that he got 304 electoral college votes.

I’m working hard, even though I recused myself from that Russia investigation. I’m just not sure how much more of these harsh insults I can take.

I could resign. I could ride away from this situation into something much more fun and less stressful, like zip lining over an alligator pit. I’m just kidding, of course. There are no alligator pit zip lines but there are some people I’d like to see trying that. “Lock her up, lock her up!” Wait, I got distracted.

I’m serving my country, but it just doesn’t seem rewarding. So, today, I did an internet search, “What to do if your boss is out to get you,” and I found an article in TopResume, a professional résumé service.

It said I should evaluate the situation and see if I’m doing enough. Well, yeah, I am, so check on me, right? Or, maybe, check plus.

Then, it said I should understand my boss’s issues and communication style, and it linked to another article that suggested ways to neutralize a Machiavellian boss. It said I should present my ideas in a way that allows him to take credit. So far, I’m not sure I’ve done that. Then it says I should give him credit but, again, I don’t know what he wants credit for?

My boss also seems like a seagull at times, diving in, depositing steaming piles of advice and then taking off, leaving the rest of us to clean up his mess. Now, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but this sounds a bit like my boss.

I’m also supposed to create a written record so I can go to human resources. I’m not sure what HR office I could approach these days. I’ll say one thing for Twitter: It sure does allow me to keep track of all the things he’s said about me.

Oh, and it also suggested I see the situation as a learning opportunity, helping me be a better boss. I guess if I were ever in his shoes, I wouldn’t need to criticize people publicly.

That’s it for now, diary. Until tomorrow, that is, when he attacks me again.

Is driving uninspiring for the next generation?

My daughter recently got her license and my son is attending driver’s education classes so he can join his sister behind the wheel. This should be cause for celebration for them, right? Nope.

When I ask my daughter if she wants to drive somewhere, she often shrugs and says, “Nah, that’s OK, you can drive.”

I recently took a long drive with my son, where I pointed out the magnificent trees along the side of the road and where I couldn’t help noticing the license plates of cars from Alaska, Arizona, Texas, New Mexico and Oregon, just to name a few.

“Dad,” my son interjected, after the pitch of my voice rose when I saw the one from Alaska, “you really like license plates.”

No, he doesn’t get it, just as I don’t get his generation.

When I got my license, I couldn’t wait to visit my friends, to go to the movies, to drive to West Meadow Beach where I had spent so much of my time walking, jogging or biking. Driving meant I no longer had to count the curves until I was at the beach. I could also exhaust myself in the waves and run out to the end of the magnificent sandbar, which seemed to stretch halfway to Connecticut, without worrying about leaving the beach before sunset so I could get home in the light.

I could also offer to pick up my friends. I could drive to their houses, knock on their doors, show off my license to their parents and then laugh my way into the car with a friend, who would turn on the radio to music. It wasn’t the boring nonstop news stations that my parents listened to — and which I now play in the car when I’m alone.

I could drive to The Good Steer in Lake Grove and meet someone for a burger and a mountain of onion rings. I could make the car as hot or cold as I wanted. A driver’s license meant independence, freedom and maturity. I didn’t have to wait for anyone.

But, no, my children and, from what I understand, many kids just aren’t as enthralled with the opportunity to get a license. For starters, as we have told them endlessly from the time we handed them their first wonderful-terrible device, they can’t use their cellphones when they are driving.

When we drive, they can ignore the road signs and street signs. They don’t have to search the side of the road for deer, turtles or the rare and exciting fox. They can chat with their friends, who are similarly indifferent to their immediate surroundings, while the car, driven by someone else, magically carries them to their next destination.

We must have taken them to so many places where they wanted to go that they had no great urge to get behind the wheel and drive themselves. I know my mom was a chauffeur, too, driving the three of us hither and yon, but maybe we haven’t said to our children, “You can go when you can drive,” often enough.

Maybe all the FaceTime and Skype time means that they can see and laugh with their friends without leaving the comfort of their home. They can’t bowl, see a movie or drink an Orange Julius, but they can hang out together while being in different places.

Access to Uber and Lyft may also have reduced the need for them to drive.

Then again, maybe it’s much simpler than that. I recently asked my son why he wasn’t more excited about driving.

“Because,” he sighed, “when I get my license, you’ll ask me to do stuff.”

Pencils, notebooks, batteries, calculators, binders, blah, blah, blah. The back-to-school shopping list, after more than a dozen years, becomes tedious. Or, maybe, it’s just that teenagers turn shopping for anything into a toxic brew of frustration, impatience, and we-know-better-but-we-still-want-you-to-get-involved-too experiences.

This year, in addition to all those standard school supplies, I’d like to shop for a collection of unconventional stickers or messages to put on the breakfast table — assuming the kids have breakfast — or in the bathroom, that they can read each day. How about:

“No, she doesn’t hate you.” Your teacher may have had a bad day and she may have a difference of opinion with you, but the chance that she hates you isn’t all that high.

“There is no such thing as ‘fake homework.’” It’d be nice not to have to do some subjects, but falling behind creates more work tomorrow, when you’ll be even more exhausted.

“Turn off your phone.” Yes, you might need the phone for homework, but you spend way too much time pretending to do homework on it while you’re killing virtual people or sending pictures of yourself to the world.

“Take a shower.” You smell, you’ll get away from your homework or job for a few minutes and you’ll make everyone else’s lives better after you no longer smell like a locker room.

“Smile, even if you don’t feel like it.” It’s amazing how much better you and everyone else will feel if and when you stop scowling.

“Don’t write in all CAPS!” It’s annoying and it makes you look like you want to shout.

“Yes, I’m sure he’s your brother.” We brought both of you home from the hospital and we intend to keep both of you.

“Neatness counts.” This is true at home and at school.

“Don’t waste too much time today.” Yeah, we all know that we won’t be efficient all the time. How about if we strive for less inefficiency today?

“Say something nice.” That is, to someone other than your best friend(s).

“Assume Santa Claus is watching you today.” Kids get presents regardless of whether they’ve been naughty or nice, which leads them to believe the song about Santa watching all the time is wrong. They may, however, suspect that he could focus on a few times or days. Today could be one of those days

“No, everyone is not an idiot.” Not even you.

“Laugh with someone more than at someone.”

“Clean up this crap.” You made a mess and you can clean it up, even if it’s more fun to watch a parent do it.

“Even if no one else knows, you’ll know.” Isn’t that enough?

“Everything might not matter, but something should.”

“Close the door and scream.” Shouting can release tension.

“Make more mistakes today.” Your errors present opportunities to learn.

“If you feel like you’re falling asleep when you shouldn’t, ask a question.” And no, it shouldn’t be, “Will this be on the test?”

“Your ideas are fine. Your breath could use improvement.”

“Yes, we have to have winter again.”

“Are you sure you want to cross that line again today?”

“Do you really believe your own argument?”

“Are you sharing more with strangers than family?”

“Try to say ‘please’ out loud as often as you send an instant message.”

“Yes, that clock is accurate, so move along.”

“Just because it’s on the internet doesn’t mean it’s true or false. It could be both.”

“Help someone other than yourself today.”

Maybe a few of these stickers will make a teenager’s world and those of us who live around it into something that smells better, is neater and contains a few extra social graces. Then again, perhaps aiming lower, a sticker could suggest:

“Try not to roll your eyes when you read this.”

If I could only talk, I could tell some exciting stories.

For starters, many people think of me as a nuisance. No, I’m not a politician, journalist or lawyer. And, no, I don’t write parking tickets or tell you why you should join my religion and how I’ll promise you bliss in this life or the next one.

I’m much closer to earth. In fact, you could say that I’m closer to earth than almost everyone.

You see, I’m a speed bump. Now, hold on, I’m not some metaphor, like the layers of an onion. Don’t you hate how onions have become the metaphor of choice for complicated stories?

I’m a mound-over-a-road speed bump, designed to force cars racing through school areas, regions filled with small children playing on and around streets, and people approaching dangerous curves to slow down.

Kids don’t start hating me, just as they don’t start hating most things. In fact, small children often enjoy the miniature carnival ride I provide when their parents roll over me during a stroll. Sometimes, parents and children make excited noises as they approach, with their voices rising and falling as they reach the top of my back and then come back down.

As children get older, they like to ride their bicycles, skateboards, hover boards and scooters over me, often at high speeds, as they hope to catch some air. I’m like a skateboarding park with training wheels for children who haven’t graduated to more advanced, and dangerous, versions of high-speed obstacle courses.

Bus drivers sometimes use me to distract a raucous collection of children who are eager to get home. In fact, one of my speed bump friends on Main Street in Setauket described how kids at the back of the bus bounced up and down on their seats, hoping to reach my friend at exactly the right time so that the force of the bump caused them to launch into the air.

But then, as they get older, some kids find me as frustrating as their parents do. They want to go faster, because they’re late to meet friends, need to get to a job interview, or can’t be bothered looking at signs on the side of the road that introduce me. They sometimes call me a speed bump, speed hump or even a speed cushion.

They reach me at speeds that are dangerous for a car’s alignment, axle or wheels. The ones that race too quickly over me often shout something unpleasant in my general direction, especially if they hear a crunch or a crack in the car below them.

But, you see, more often than not, that means I’ve accomplished my goal. If they remember to slow down next time, they will protect their cars and, more importantly, the people who live, walk, work and, best of all, play in the area.

They may not think of the younger versions of themselves, or about their own children, as they slow down, but I don’t care. I’m not there to protect their car or to help them get somewhere more rapidly.

If they choose another route — maybe one that involves a highway — I’ve also gotten them away from local roads. Speed bumps like me serve a purpose, whether or not people enjoy me and the stripes they sometimes put on me.

And, as you know, school will be starting in a few weeks. I know because I’ve seen some of the back-to-school signs that pass slowly over me on the way to the stores.

Maybe, some day, self-driving cars will automatically slow down through areas where people are out and about. Until that day comes, I’m here for you and your children.

They aren’t unicorns, tooth fairies or fantastic creatures from the C.S. Lewis “Narnia” series. And yet, for a Long Islander who spent considerable time standing knee deep in the waters around West Meadow Beach, listening to the aggressive screech of territorial red-winged blackbirds, the sight of a green ruby-throated hummingbird moving forward and backward in North Carolina brought its own kind of magic.

By the time I got out my cellphone and clicked open the camera app, the bird had disappeared.

While there are hummingbirds that periodically appear on Long Island, the sight of one in Charlotte so soon after our move here seemed like a charming welcome from the nonhuman quarters of Southeastern life.

Behind a Chili’s and Qdoba — yes, they are side by side in a strip mall here — we discovered a spectacular lake with a small walking path over the water near the shore. Looking down, we saw numerous fish hovering below and, to our delight, a collection of turtles, who all clearly have an appetite for the leftovers from the nearby restaurant.

We have also seen, and felt, considerably more bugs and mosquitoes, while we’ve heard cicadas, which, unlike the 17-year kind on Long Island, emerge here every year.

So, what about the two-legged creatures?

After the initial shock from the level of consideration other drivers displayed, it’s become clear that:

(a) The Northeast hasn’t cornered the market on aggressive and anxious drivers.

(b) You can take the New Yorker out of New York, but you can’t take New York out of the New Yorker.

Until I get North Carolina license plates, I have been driving the speed limit on smaller, local roads. Other cars have tailgated me so closely that I can practically read their lips as they talk on the phone or sing songs.

I watched a woman in a Mustang convertible, with rap music shouting profanities, weave in and out of traffic as her long hair waved in the breeze behind her. From a distance, the music and expletives were one and the same.

We have also seen an extensive collection of tattoos. A young FedEx driver climbed out of her truck and rang the bell to deliver a package. Her arms were so covered in colors and designs that it was difficult to discern a theme or pattern.

I walked into a supermarket behind a young couple pushing a baby stroller. The father had tattoos along the back of his muscular calves, while body ink adorned the well-defined shoulders and arms of his wife. I wondered if and when their young child might get her first tattoo.

When they find out we’re from the Northeast, people in North Carolina frequently become self-deprecating about their inability to handle cold weather. They laugh that flurries, or even a forecast for snow, shuts down the entire city of Charlotte. They assure us that no matter how much we shoveled elsewhere, we won’t have to lift and dump snow by the side of the road.

They ask how we’re handling the heat, which is often in the mid-90s, and the humidity, which is fairly high as well. While the three H’s — hazy, hot and humid — are my least favorite combination, I have certainly experienced many warm summers on Long Island, where shade or a trip into the ocean or a pool provide small comfort in the face of oppressive warmth.

With birds and insects of all sizes flying around, and drivers weaving in and out of traffic, North Carolina has displayed an abundance of high-energy activity.

The president of the United States is taking full credit for the relief those crazy leftist environmental groups are feeling in response to the resignation of the latest misunderstood and much maligned member of his cabinet, Scott Pruitt.

You see, President Donald Trump knew that Pruitt would do his bidding, gutting unnecessary government regulations designed to protect the water, air and food that Americans and, indeed, others on the planet need on a daily basis.

He knew Pruitt would do everything he asked, and more. It’s like the old Stalin philosophy. You remember that ruthless Soviet Union dictator, right? He never wanted any of his tank commanders to be too powerful because he didn’t want their leader taking over.

So, he chose Pruitt knowing that he’d do what Trump wanted and then would become so enmeshed in the world he tried to help — lobbyists, coal interests, insecticide manufacturers — that he would eventually cause harm to himself and his political aspirations.

Trump is, rightfully, taking full credit for the resignation of a man he supported when it was expedient to do so and that he needed to cut loose when the combination of foibles and follies entered the public realm.

Sure, some nasty journalists may have quoted unnamed sources who shared questionable details about Pruitt’s spending habits, his requests for football tickets, his security detail and his desire to get his wife a job. Ultimately, it was Trump who made the call, putting the thorn in the side of the environmental groups and then pulling it out ever so quickly and gracefully.

Well, maybe it wasn’t all that quick. Pruitt lasted far longer in Washington than even members of the “Trump Party” — that’s the new name of the group formerly known as the Republican Party — might have wanted. But, hey, the more people who found Pruitt’s actions and decisions questionable, the greater the relief when he was finally removed from office.

OK, so technically the guy resigned, which means he walked out of the seat of power and into an enormous gas-guzzling sport utility vehicle. But, seriously, does anyone believe Pruitt thought he blew it on his own? No, no, people, wake up. News that the environmental groups all thought was good because they imagined that the EPA might return to its mandate of protecting the environment and the people, animals and trees living here came courtesy of His Truly: President Trump.

Yes, of course, you can thank him for taking nuclear weapons out of the hands of the North Koreans, and you can express your appreciation for the incredibly kind way he pulled back from a zero-tolerance policy he established because of laws the Democrats won’t fix, but don’t forget to give credit where credit is due.

You see, if the president had never tapped Pruitt, who built his career attacking the henhouse that was the EPA from his home in Oklahoma, the greenie groups would never be able to celebrate his removal. No, it’s a total credit to Trump that the reality TV show that was the Pruitt era at the EPA has been canceled.

So, take your time, think of the right words and make sure to thank the man in charge of the world for choosing the right man at the right time and then letting that man walk off into a sunset enhanced by all the pollution-generated particulates he helped put there.

Social

9,193FansLike
0FollowersFollow
1,126FollowersFollow
33SubscribersSubscribe