by Freida Marie Crump
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Greetin’s from the Ridge.
The year was 1857. A naturalist named George Krefft caught two very rare pig-footed bandicoots in the innards of the Australian outback.
Unfortunately for science and for the bandicoots, Krefft soon grew hungry and ate them. Even more unfortunately, there’s never been another pig-footed bandicoot found anywhere. We’re not sure, but we think George ate the last two.
We do that a lot. Shoot ourselves in the foot. We eat the last bandicoot.
Nearly every edition of every newspaper this summer has been filled with the current rage: Rage. Road rage, family rage, airline rage. In fact, the flight attendants’ national association decided last week that enough was enough and told the airlines that unless steps were taken, the attendants would consider a strike. The pilots association had its own concerns since when the co-pilot must leave the cockpit to calm a rowdy idiot, there’s only one person left to fly the plane.
Last week a psychological study was announced sayin’ that we each have the potential for road rage inside us. I’m still okay, but that means you’re a potential madman behind the wheel. The study found that the most likely candidates to lose their cool on the highway are men in pickup trucks and sports cars, and women drivin’ Sports Utility Vehicles. While there’s always been doubts about the sanity of the SUV, it’s now confirmed that you get a little nutty once you get behind the wheel.
I guess when 2 million Americans fly every day and nearly every one of us get behind the wheel of car, we can expect a certain percentage of loonies. Still, I gotta wonder if we ain’t about to eat our own bandicoot. Sure as God made little green bureaucrats, there’ll follow a string of regulations and mandatory psychological tests before we can get license to drive or step inside a plane. Millions of our tax dollars will be spent on discoverin’ the cure for this malicious malaise and meaningless answers will be unearthed, published, discussed then forgotten.
All for nothin’. The fact is, we’re spoiled. We want it by-God quick and by-God now and it’s our by-God-given right to drive whatever we want, fly where we want, and we expect to have the right-of-way enroute.
We’re a nation of spoiled brats.
What must the world think? What must go through the head of an African child dyin’ of AIDS for the lack of the $14-a-month medicine to make her remainin’ days bearable? She’s one of 36 million afflicted today, 70% of whom live on her continent. What does she think when she hears on the radio that an American in a $40,000 luxury truck got impatient on the way to his golf session, and popped the bread truck driver in the van ahead of him? What does she think when learns that the woman who attacked a United Airlines flight attendant because of her seat assignment left a month’s reprieve from HIV as a tip just the night before in a San Francisco restaurant? I hope she never knows. I hope she never finds out how very foolish the fortunate of this world can be. I hope she at least dies thinkin’ that someone was trying.
Anyone who’s spent any time at all on a playground knows that the pampered child soon becomes the bully. The spoiled brat usually gets older, not smarter. I can recall watchin’ the glories of an Alaskan sunset while standin’ on the deck of a cruise ship beside a lady of some means. Overwhelmed with the sheer glory of it all, I simply said, "Are we blessed to be here or what?"
She sniffed at me through the hides of several dead minks and said, "I’ll have you know I earned this trip! I replied, "Which part did you earn? Bein’ born rich or white or American?"
She huffed off in a miffed mist of expensive perfume and disgust.
Before we shoot our bandicoot and lose the good things we’ve got, let’s at least be honest enough to admit that we’re a nation of spoiled brats.
We can’t rid ourselves of the symptoms by implyin’ that "rage" is some sort of new psychological disorder. There are only so many ways to spell "brat."
Are we the most philanthropic nation on earth? Sure. Nobody surpasses our giving. But who gives until it hurts? What in good conscience can we tell that little girl?
To whom much has been given, much will be required. Of course, that doesn’t mean that much will be done about it. The bandicoot is not lookin’ good.
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.