Let me say this about that.

I have a number of old friends who are, as a lot, pretty positive on life.  They’re convinced that “the glass is half full” and seem to enjoy smelling the roses conveniently planted along the road of life.  They make lemonade out of any lemons that come their way, whistle-while-they-work, and enjoy singing the anthem of the optimist:  “Don’t Worry – Be Happy.”  In other words, they’re nothing like me.

This group of friends, with Mrs. Shambo counted among their number, have often accused me of being a pessimist.  This simply is not true.  A pessimist is a person who complains about the noise when opportunity knocks.  That’s just not me.  I’m a “realist”.  There is a difference.

And as a realist, I often reject the conventional wisdom with which I am bludgeoned daily.  Conventional wisdom, for example, would have one believe that drinking alcohol to excess is…    bad.  But I see no harm in getting a good buzz because, every realist knows as I do, you can’t fall off the floor. 

I don’t like things just because I’m told I should like them.  Bean curd may be healthy, but it smells like wet dog.  Children are adorable, but only when their parents put them in the car to take them the hell away from me.  The sound of a bagpipe may be soulful, but I would rather suck ear wax out of a geriatric than have to listen to one  …… unlike an onion, no one cries when you stick a knife into a bagpipe.

Mrs. Shambo is often my most ardent critic.  She has tried to encourage me to embrace “moderation in all things”, but drinking, gambling, partying, over-eating, driving too fast, and chasing the next adrenaline rush is what makes life worth living.  I’m not a guy who eats fiber because it will allow me to live five more years – just to eat more fiber.  I’m a “realist”.  I have a realistic view of my true purpose here on Earth ………  I am here to serve as a warning to others.

The problem with being a “realist” is that it can lead to cynicism.  That in itself, is not such a big deal, just as long as you don’t let it degrade into the dark abyss of embitterment.  A “cynic” is a “realist” who has realized that he can’t open the eyes of all the optimists out there – but tries anyway. 

Optimists are the chew-toys of old cynics.  They never tire of shredding them, thread-by-thread, and tossing them aside to look for the next hapless victim.  Strangely, the optimists don’t seem to mind.  An optimist is a true believer in that all experiences are inherently pleasurable and that all things are possible.  I once asked an incurable optimist to prove this assertion by demonstrating to me he could Baptize a cat.  But alas, he demurred.

Optimist are easily confused.  When faced with a choice between two evils, an optimist will obsess for days trying to find inherent goodness in one of the choices.  A cynic thinks it’s fun to choose the one he hasn’t tried yet. 

Mathematical probabilities are especially confusing to optimists.  They actually believe there is a chance they could win the lottery and spend gojillions of dollars pursuing this eventuality of good fortune.   When I explain that the mathematical probability of winning the lottery is smaller than the odds the next Pope to be chosen will be the Mayor of Des Moines, they call me a cynic who doesn’t believe in the power of positive thinking.

Oh, I believe in positive thinking alright - not just the optimist’s definition - or the one I call “self improvement through self deception”.  Even as a realist, there are a number of things about which I think positively. For example, I think, positively, I would never trust my dog to watch my food. 

Being a realist or a cynic is neither good nor bad. It’s just a different way of vetting the choices one has in life.  We all deal with the human condition in our own way – relationships with our family, our friends and our neighbors.  And, neighbors are often the most challenging.  Neighbors are fine as long as they stay next door.  But while the optimists sing a song of brotherhood and good will: 

“This land is your land, this land is my land, this land is made for you and me.”

I sing the song of realism:

“This land is your land, this land is my land, now seriously, get off my lawn.”

And, that’s all I have to say about that.

Shambo