My Suffering is None of Your Business

Some people want to save the world from suffering. The extremes they will pursue to accomplish this impossible task appear to have no limits.

The implications are sobering.

I first became aware of this in the context of growing concern for suffering people’s ‘quality of life’.

Quality of life issues

If someone is infirm, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, has chronic pain, is alone, is taking up a bed, cannot pay, depression…hangnail… The drift of this is obvious. The solution of choice is rapidly becoming euthanasia. States and countries are finding euthanasia a viable solution to the sea of humanity cluttering up their medical facilities.

These ‘do-gooders’ are applying their one-size-fits-all solution to the beginnings of life as well. If a fetus is determined to be imperfect, i.e. expected to have Down’s syndrome, or other, less than perfect development as determined by statistical arcs, the obvious solution is termination.

After all, so the thinking goes, a fetus isn’t alive. It isn’t even human! So termination shouldn’t ruffle any feathers. And we are saving that potential someone from a less than ideal quality of life. How merciful.

And, voila! What a surprise! Like magic, they have discovered a wealth of healthy human organs suitable for sale for use in transplants and medical study! What a boon!

This is obviously a win-win for everyone. (Well, except for that unfortunate potential someone, with no quality of life.)

You might think I am exaggerating. I am not. And there is more.

Eradicating the world from suffering is a big job. They are just getting started. Yet suffering continues. Suffering may be part of what many call the human condition.

People have a mental illness. Or are wheelchair-bound. People are hungry. People are ignorant (they don’t even know how stupid they are!). People are grieving a loss. Your candidate didn’t win. You ran out of cigarettes. Children fall down and scrape their knees all the time. Where will the suffering stop?

Some people even choose to suffer. Ever give birth? No one does that by accident.

How can anyone eliminate the suffering caused by a young woman’s inability to bear children?

These benevolent savants have so much to do. It will take them time. But fear not. They will get to you before you know it. Have a headache? Keep it to yourself. Stay out of their sights.

We are told daily the world is ending. What would these visionaries do? Kill more people, to improve the odds of surviving (and limit the suffering). Certain intellectuals have proposed cannibalizing babies, again, with the double benefit of feeding the poor and limiting population growth.

Am I falling for some Swiftian satirical fake news? If so, I missed the punch line. These people are efficient to a fault.

Who are these people with such superior knowledge on human suffering? Academics and intellectuals create theories at the drop of a grant. But real people must survive (or not) the practical applications of their untested theories.

It is notable these experts view their work as important. But not so important they would lead by example. They are thinkers, not leaders. They are determined never to leave any sufferer behind. They won’t sacrifice themselves for their vision of a greater good.

I think those wonderful souls who assigned themselves this awesome task are misguided.

Their ideas on ‘quality of life’ may not be the ultimate standard.

I may kill a roach or a fly. And, however ignorant that fly may be of its miserable existence, it will struggle mightily to survive. And here I’m just trying to help.

But my purpose isn’t to save them from a less than ideal quality of life. They are a pestilence. At least I am honest about my motives.

But suffering is subjective. It is ‘MY’ suffering. Back off!

One man’s suffering may be another man’s joy.

How could that be? How could value be found in suffering?

Because suffering is subjective, estimating its value through an objective standard cannot help but deliver false conclusions.

Because suffering is subjective, our attitude toward it must be considered. A change in attitude can change the world. Perhaps my ‘suffering,’ my doing without, improves another’s life? Whatever the trade-off, it may not only be worth it but bring joy.

Would British astrophysicist, Stephen Hawking have preferred his life be shortened due to quality of life issues? How he must have suffered.

How many brilliant minds have been snuffed out pre-emptively, to avoid the possibility of their suffering? How merciful are those seeking to destroy in order to save!

Certainly, Mr. Hawking would have chosen a different life. Or would he? He certainly chose to live the life he had, as long as he had it.

Choice. We all make choices. Choice has become almost a prayer in some circles. And choices have consequences.

Since it has come up, whose choice must be considered? Perhaps an individual chooses to end his or her life. Whatever their suffering, it has become unbearable to them.

This is a tragic situation. But it doesn’t end suffering. It only spreads it out to many more people.

There are so many true believers eagerly easing the transition from life for the sufferers assigned to them. Ever meet someone who survived hospice? Almost rarer than the dodo. Hospice workers are famous for always getting their man. Incentives are a powerful motivator.

But once the government gets in the business of helping people die, mistakes are inevitable. Ever hear of too much of a good thing? Die with dignity. Take that to the bank.

Life is quite short. Do we really want the weight of the government influencing our personal decisions? How can I get a do-over?

I would not presume to ridicule or diminish anyone’s suffering. I pray despair never enters that mix. I certainly don’t know your experience. And you don’t know mine. I honor your experience and would not presume to make decisions for you about it.

Perhaps most difficult is watching another suffer. It is a most helpless feeling. It is their suffering. All humanity has this in common. Perhaps suffering is what connects us to each other. It makes us most human of all.

A change in perspective could help. Suffering can be purposeful.

Dedicate your suffering to something greater than yourself. Don’t let anyone presume to tell you what you deserve, what you ‘should’ do.

Whatever deity you worship, look to the wisdom of the ages to avert suffering. Acceptance and forgiveness are recurring themes. If you think you don’t worship, have you considered how that contributes to your suffering?

God gave us free will. We can choose what to think and feel about our suffering. Our individual suffering could be for a greater good – if we choose. Yes, I suffer AND I will do this anyway.

We can offer our suffering up to God’s glory. Many, many do.

I call for each of us to live. To accept what cannot be changed. And unburden ourselves through forgiveness. And while living, dedicate our suffering to something beyond ourselves.

Tell anyone seeking to relieve you – to keep their bloody hands off of your suffering. There may be worse things than suffering. Don’t sacrifice the power your suffering contains. Use it.

It is ours. We may be indifferent to suffering. Embrace it. Wallow in it. Or rejoice in it.

The Flight Risk

Marcus smiled down at Destiny. “May I buy you a drink?”

“I have one, thank you. But we can talk.” She held a glass filled with icy clear liquid and a wedge of lime.

“Great.”

Marcus sat next to her. Each table stood in its own intimate alcove, perfect for conversation. Most of the tables were filled with travelers reunited or saying their good-byes.

Destiny smiled. “My name is Destiny.”

She was the most beautiful woman Marcus had ever seen.

“I’m Marcus.”

Destiny offered her hand and he took it gently. Her touch thrilled him. Destiny smiled at his feigned formality.

Conversation was exactly what Marcus sought. Good old anonymous, meaningless conversation. These days, that was hard to find. And he needed it so much. If they moved on from small talk and actually got to know each other, all the better. But his dream was to indulge in cheap, face to face, small talk.

Marcus became wealthy by investing his lotto winnings in a forward-thinking tech start-up. He didn’t know AI from AZ. But he had the money and his friend, Patel, had the knowhow.

What an ironic curse that all became. His financial security bred simmering insecurity. Now, he felt he could only risk getting to know anyone by hiding his identity. How he longed for his days as a nobody.

Marcus took comfort that he didn’t look to be a person of note. He never adopted the sartorial cues which set the rich apart. Marcus knew he could travel under the radar, but it wasn’t easy.

He yearned to buy a drink for a woman knowing she wanted his smile and not his pocketbook. Marcus felt human connection becoming rare in this age of anti-social media. People were lonelier than ever.

“Are you a local? I just flew in… for a business meeting in the morning. I saw this place and thought I’d unwind from the flight.”

Destiny held her look. “No, I’m flying out tonight. Family business.”

Marcus had exited the airport and saw this lounge, Flight Risk. The edgy/classy name intrigued him. It promised to be better than the typical sports bar. He found it had the perfect ambiance, subdued recessed lighting, warm wood, and low, easy music.

And now Marcus found himself with the perfect conversation mate, Destiny. Though dressed for travel, her fashion style hit the mark. She looked great.

Marcus dared to overstep. “I hope it’s not a crisis.”

“Thank you, but no. It’s just an annual trip, kind of a reunion.”

“Mind if I ask where to?”

“Singapore.”

“I’ve been there. Wonderful people.”

Her accent was charming, more English than American. She paused sometimes, seeking the correct word.

They danced around specifics and lowered their guards. Destiny appeared to listen with genuine interest. He saw her enjoyment of his humor. Her laughter, a fountain of joy.

Destiny asked some serious questions too. Her eyes sparkled with interest. She made Marcus feel safe to talk with authenticity.

Marcus felt seen. Heard like never before. He wondered if one can fall in love in an instant. Destiny seemed too perfect. He liked that. How sad their time was so limited.

Marcus entertained Destiny with a story about his co-workers. He left his part in it on the periphery.

“They had a pool. A betting pool of sorts where every week they would join forces and funds to buy lotto tickets.”

“The boss knew about it?”

“He didn’t care. It was fun anticipation and harmless, as no one spent too much. Until…”

“What?”

“Well, they hit it big.”

“Big?”

“Really big. Like half a million each.”

“Wow! What happened?”

“They quit. En masse. Thought they had it made. Our office was decimated. Those who stayed got promotions for pulling the slack and keeping it from going belly up.”

“And the winners?”

“They blew through it in less than two years. Like a sieve. They each came back crying. But it was too late.”

“Watch what you wish for…”

“It was funny, only it wasn’t.”

Destiny saw the time. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I need to catch this flight. I have to go.”

It was over. Too soon. He’d never felt so connected to anyone. So intimate. So brief.

“Let me drive you? My rental is just outside.”

“Thanks. But I called Uber.”

They stood for an awkward moment. Marcus moved to embrace Destiny. She responded for an exquisite moment. They held each other longer than either expected. He would never forget the scent of her hair.

Destiny pulled away. She smiled up at him and then took his hand shyly. “I must go.”

“Wait!” She stopped. Marcus fished in his wallet. “Take my card. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

Destiny took his card. “Perhaps.” She brushed past him.

Marcus was alone. He gathered his wits and went to his hotel.

The next morning, his partner, Patel, picked him up for an early lunch. It was a happy reunion. They had much to discuss. Things were going great. Patel wanted to show him his latest projects.

“Marcus, you are going to love this. Our set up costs were astronomical, of course. Unavoidable. That’s tech. But with labor overhead being next to nil, we’ll easily amortize it in less than a decade. After that, pure gravy, Marcus.”

Patel drove them toward their lunch meeting. Airport traffic slowed the flow. Patel made a sudden turn into the round-about in front of Flight Risk. Patel took the valet ticket.

Marcus shook his head. “What are you doing?”

“Patience, my friend. I have a surprise for you.”

They entered the lounge together. It was busy for midday. Patel spread his arms with a grand smile. “Brilliant, yes? What do you think?”

Marcus noticed the company logo. “This is yours?”

“Ours, my friend. Surprise!”

Marcus’s mind reeled. A musical laugh drew his attention to one of the tables. The woman leaned back and clapped, just like Destiny had.

It was Destiny. Marcus stared. He scanned the room. Had he gone mad? Every woman was Destiny.

They had different hair. Different clothing. But each had that manner, the off-kilter smile, that presence.

Patel intruded. “Marcus, isn’t this amazing? Of course, we’ll mix the dolls up. This is our test location. Right by the airport. Perfect for a steady flow of upscale but transient customers. It’s the cutting edge of AI, Marcus. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Destiny approached them and smiled her signature smile. “Welcome Patel. Hello Marcus.”

Patel laughed. “You two know each other?”

Marcus stammered. “I didn’t know. I came here last night.”

“I love it. Flight Risk… Isn’t it great?”

Destiny offered her hand to Marcus. “I’m your Destiny.”

“My Destiny? But…”

“Yes. You completed me. Last night.”

Patel touched Destiny’s elbow and whispered, “We met.”

Destiny paused, re-directed herself to Marcus and repeated. “Yes… we met.”

Patel beamed at Marcus making him feel like he was on display for Patel’s entertainment.

“We keep them on a cycle of sixty to ninety minutes. No funny stuff.”

Marcus looked at Destiny intently. It was her. With that voice, it had to be her. But it couldn’t be.

As a test, he said, “May I buy you a drink?”

“I have one, thank you. But we can talk.”

She held up a glass filled with icy clear liquid and a wedge of lime.

Patel laughed. “Fantastic! I have to hear about this! Find a table. I’ll get drinks. What are you having?”

Dazed, Marcus said, “Bourbon. Straight.”

Destiny took Marcus’ hand and led him to the same intimate alcove as last night. She sat and patted the cushion, inviting him to sit.

Marcus hesitated. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

A wave of nausea drove Marcus staggering to the men’s room. He leaned on the counter while staring into the mirror. Then he became sick.

A few minutes later, Marcus called a cab and returned to his hotel without speaking to anyone else in the Flight Risk.

© John K. Adams 2019. All rights reserved.

The Secret

Charlie had some choice words for her. But he didn’t like saying them, even to himself. She deserved them. ‘She’ was his fourth-grade teacher, Miss Margaret Pringle.

‘Miss Pee’, her name being the source of endless humor among his classmates, yelled at Charlie today. In front of his friends, no less. He hadn’t done his homework. He hated homework. He hated her.

Miss Pee made him stay after school to finish it. But Charlie outsmarted her. When she left the classroom, Charlie picked up his backpack and made an ‘exit left’.

“Charlie, are you done with your homework? No video games before homework. You know the rule.”

“I finished it, Mom.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure…”

Charlie’s mother and Mrs. Jensen, their neighbor, shared a coffee at the kitchen counter, a daily ritual. Cigarette smoke rose lazily from the ashtray, a souvenir from his parent’s trip to Vegas.

Charlie sat on the floor by the table playing on his video game console. He liked listening to adults. They would talk away and suddenly use letters instead of words. Whenever he heard them using code, his ears perked up.

“I swear, that woman is out of control.” Mrs. Jensen said. The women exchanged looks and his mother cleared her throat.

“You mean M. P.?”

Mrs. Jensen nodded. “You know what I mean. Kids need to apply themselves. How can they gain the discipline to get a job when they graduate?”

“Careers don’t grow on trees.”

“Unless you’re a lumberjack.” They laughed.

“But I’m talking about her personal life. She’s a mess. I heard… money problems… debt.”

“With what they get paid?”

“Glorified baby sitters, if you ask me. Don’t they teach them anything anymore?”

“And still living with…”

“Well, with one of them…?”

It got quiet at that. Charlie could hear their eyes rolling, though. He knew they were talking about his teacher. They went on and used some words he didn’t know, like ‘bankruptcy’ and ‘repo’. But Charlie got the gist. Miss Pee was irresponsible. And a member of a messed up family. Hoo boy!

Wait ’til she scolds him again. She won’t know what hit her.

Charlie stood and headed for the door. His mother called after him.

“Don’t go far, young man. Dinner at six.”

“Okay!”

Charlie needed to think. He headed to the slough, where the creek passed under the highway down from the school.

Almost dry in the fall, the cattails in the slough grew like mad, reaching eight feet in places. Their thick heads tufted, sending out millions of seeds. A red-winged blackbird sang. A few dragonflies hovered where tadpoles would swim in the spring swell.

When the water was down, Charlie used the underpass as a shortcut walking to school. He hopped from stone to stone in the cool gloom. Charlie passed the cool embankment and remembered once smoking a ‘borrowed’ pack of cigarettes there.

Charlie exited the tunnel. It was quiet except for the wash of traffic from overhead. The stone he threw bounced into the weeds. Someone called his name. Jim approached, walking his dog, Shep.

Charlie said, “What’s up?”

Shep sniffed urgently along the water. The boys threw stones across the trickle of a creek.

“Just walkin’. I’m surprised you’re not grounded after Miss Pee sent that note to your Mom.”

“I tore it up.”

“You’re kidding! Won’t she find out?”

“I don’t care.”

Shep ran into the cattail forest.

“My Dad always says he’ll make me care.”

“They can’t make me.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I know something.”

“Like you’re so smart?”

“I’ve got information.”

“Like what?”

Charlie looked at Jim. He knew secrets told, lost their power.

“Like nothing. It’s a secret.”

“Heard that before.”

“You’ll see.”

Jim called Shep, who came to him with tail wagging and dusted with cattail fuzz.

“Look. Shep’s in love.”

They laughed as they brushed the fuzz from Shep’s fur. Shep loved the attention.

Charlie said, “Why do they say that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just funny. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Charlie watched Jim walk back up the path followed by Shep.

In last spring’s flood, he and Jim borrowed a flat bottomed boat and poled around the slough like Tom Sawyer. They tried to navigate the tunnel under the highway. It got scary when the current sent them spinning and careening off the concrete walls of the tunnel.

They didn’t drown. But they did get into trouble for dinging up the boat. Jim and Charlie didn’t hang out much after that. Parents always blame the other kid’s bad influence.

At dinner, Charlie’s parents talked about their day, boring stuff. Charlie went to his room after dessert and didn’t even watch his favorite TV show.

Later, his Dad knocked and stuck his head in. “You alright, kid?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“You seem kind of low energy.”

“Naw. Just studying. You know…”

“That’s great. Keep those grades up.”

“Yup.”

“Be sure to get your sleep.”

“Okay, ‘night Dad.”

After his Dad left, Charlie found his dictionary. It provided him a better definition of ‘bankrupt’ than he dared hope for.

Charlie put some late effort into getting homework done. He knew he would get yelled at for ditching detention. He had his secret weapon ready, just in case.

Charlie awoke early. He had barely slept anticipating this blockbuster day. How often did a kid get to call out their teacher for the gross mismanagement of personal finances? Hah! Maybe he’d even get her fired. That would show her.

Almost giddy thinking about it, Charlie almost skipped down the sidewalk. He stopped himself from that. He might be giddy, but he wasn’t crazy.

Picking his way through the tunnel, Charlie noticed the little mound strewn with cigarette butts, smoked right down to the filters. ‘That’s one dedicated smoker,’ thought Charlie. Smoking’s allure eluded him ever since Charlie smoked that pack.

Charlie came out of the tunnel and into the cattail forest. He looked up to see Miss Pee stepping down from a city bus. She accompanied an older man wearing jeans, a leather jacket and carrying a backpack on one shoulder.

Avoiding detection, Charlie stepped into the thicket. He watched them hold hands as they descended the embankment towards the tunnel.

Miss Pee put her arm over his shoulder. They spoke in familiar terms as Miss Pee spoke encouragingly to the man. He dismissed her concerns but she insisted. She gave him a go-bag from the Breakfast Hut. He protested while she stuffed folded bills into his shirt pocket.

“You need to eat.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m just camping out a bit.”

“Things will work out.”

They embraced and she kissed him on the cheek. Before turning to go, she said, “Love you Dad.”

The man waved good-bye and lit a cigarette as he entered the tunnel. Miss Pee wobbled in her dress shoes as she scaled the embankment to the street. She held a handkerchief in her hand.

Charlie waited a minute before walking to the school. Now he had more to work with. Miss Pee would never forget this day. Mission almost accomplished.

Everyone in the playground seemed happy to see Charlie. It was weird. Even stuck-up Dorothy, who never spoke to him, approached Charlie with a big smile on her face.

“Hi, Charlie. You have something you want to tell me?” Some girls standing behind her giggled.

Charlie turned and saw Jim, who looked away with a big grin on his face.

“Naw, I’m okay, Dorothy.” Some other kids laughed as they ran by.

The bell rang and everyone hurried to class.

When Charlie sat at his desk, he felt ready to burst. He knew exactly what to say but needed the perfect moment.

The usual commotion died as everyone settled. Today there seemed to be an unusual amount of laughter. What did Jim say to them?

Charlie turned to Jim, who sat in the desk behind him. “What did you…”

The bell rang and Miss Pee spoke immediately. “Everyone settle! Please get out your homework and pass it forward.”

Charlie held his homework. And he was prepared for that delicious moment.

He felt Miss Pee’s hand on his shoulder. She knelt beside him and spoke quietly.

“Charlie, I’m sorry I snapped at you the other day. Please, let’s get a fresh start.”

Stunned, Charlie could only say, “Okay.”

Miss Pee gave his hand a little squeeze as she took his homework and stood. Then she said, “Oh, Charlie, you have a little cattail fuzz on your head. You can go to the washroom to clean it off.”

Jim leaned forward and with a stage whisper said, “Charlie’s in love!”

All the kids burst into laughter, including Charlie. Only Charlie also had tears running down his face.

Profanity is a Bunch of Crap

Words generate thought

Call me an un-hip old fuddy-duddy, but the increased use of profanity in Medium posts and elsewhere is depressing.

Am I the only one who sees the coarsening of our culture and degradation of language as a slippery slope? Writers are the bulwark against the barbarians.

Editors are supposed to be the writer’s bulwark. Anyone up for one more review before we publish? Sheesh!

I know, you are writing what people want to read. It’s the way they talk. You can’t help it, right?

           These writers are terminally hip.

Want to know a little secret? A professor once told me, “If you can’t put it into words, you don’t know what you are talking about.” Is your vocabulary is mono-syllabic, and a large percentage of it was familiar to Chaucer? You are a victim of self-imposed mind control.

Under totalitarian regimes, without freedom of speech, people resort to non-committal language to express themselves. Fear stifles free expression. Imagine fearing imprisonment for some snitch’s interpretation of, “You know the ‘thing’ I told you about? That ‘thing’ we were going to do to the ‘thing’ and bring an end to this whole ‘thinged-up’ ‘thingness’?”

If you cannot use language to express your thoughts, where do you think those thoughts go? They go nowhere. They don’t exist. You lose the ability to think.

          George Orwell, your mother tongue is calling you.

What is your purpose?

 Hear anyone say lately, “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death, your right to say it”? Me neither.

I say it now. But of course, when profanity is the dominant form of diction, what exactly is it you are trying to say? Take your right to free expression and use it for more than creating noise.

Trust me. I am not some prude who turns six shades of red at some new variation on Anglo-Saxon expletives. I don’t care to read them. They are an assault on the eye, on the mind and are boring. Empty calories and all that, you know?

Long ago, a rule limited word use to once per page. I now stumble upon f-bombs and their red-haired cousins, several times in one sentence. And this isn’t in dialogue. And it is usually in some essay with pretentions of being serious.

Eloquent swearing might impress me. Or at least create laughter at the gushing of creative juices. After all, how many parts of speech based on a single four-letter word, can you cram into a single sentence? I would love to see that sentence diagrammed. Anyone want to unpack the subtle nuances and deeper meanings expressed therein?

          I’m with Mark Twain in my disdain for those who never learned to swear effectively.

Anyone with foreign language experience knows how bland English profanity has become. The inflammatory imagery generated in some languages is bracing.

English speakers and writers who cling to a handful of timeworn expletives, betray a sorry lack of imagination. Ever hear a three-year-old who got a new drum for his birthday? Welcome to the hipsterish stylings of modern writing. Is ‘truck’ the only word that needs a rhyme?

Some things exceed language’s capacity to express

 I read that violence is the bankruptcy of ideas. I laugh at reports of some legislative body in which lawmakers join a fistfight with members from across the aisle. These are our leaders?

Writers hold a similar position in society. Violent words lead to what?

Of course, if you are writing about your personal experiences in war, have at it. Genteel language cannot describe events and personal experiences inexpressible in any language.

But writing about the traffic on your morning commute? Spare me.

I started in journalism and am appalled at how language in all parts of society has declined. Does anyone besides me remember when the use of exclamation points was discouraged?!!!

Swear words can be effective (especially comically). Less is more.

But I will not open and read a piece that has four-letter words in the title. Your title is your shot at drawing me in and wooing me to read the full piece. And your banner has an f-bomb? How seductive. Shouldn’t you reserve that for the climax?

My first (and only) reaction is, that’s the best you have? Next!

This poverty of language is depressing.

Even when being critical of it, writers need to uplift the culture. Our word choice should reflect that. If this is the quality of your ideas, why should I waste my time reading them?

If you want to portray an ignoramus in your story, what language would you use? Do you want to portray yourself in that same light? Have some self-respect.

Or I won’t read you.

A sentence, which artfully produces the same concepts, without repeating yet another expletive, is more entertaining, wittier and more thought-provoking.

Some writers will think I want them to hide their true feelings behind a wall of pretty words. They have it backward. Reducing emotions to a stream of four-letter words is a form of writer’s block. We use expletives when unable to more accurately express our feelings. Thus my statement about those writing about battle experiences.

     We may be apes, but are we articulate apes?

Our job is to make those emotions accessible to the reader. If ‘fuck’ could talk, what would it say?

The Old Testament has one of the most pungent images of all. “Like a dog that returns to his vomit is a fool who repeats his folly.” Prov. 26:11.

How expressive that is.

I challenge the vanguard to outdo that one.

I’m waiting.