Howling In The Grieveyard
If you are a Grief Counselor I don’t mean to get personal. But, what you do is hard to understand. Attorneys get grief for chasing ambulances, but Grievees chase disasters. “I dropped my toast, butter side down.” Call a Grief Counselor! “My mother yelled at me for a messy room.” Call a Grief Counselor! “They took Court TV out of our cable lineup.” Call a Grief Counselor! “There’s a fly in my soup.” Call a Grief Counselor!
Now, I am as sympathetic as anyone. My wife was extremely embarrassed when we saw “Terms of Endearment” in the theater. I sobbed and blubbered during the scene where Debra Winger’s children stood by her bed while she was dying. Any movie sure to make me cry has to be watched in solitude. When we put our dog down three years ago, everyone in the Vet’s office was wailing when I lost it. So, don’t think I don’t grieve. Do I really need a trained specialist to tell me I am sad and keep reminding me?
When there is a news report on TV involving a mass shooting, an explosion, or some other tragic event, they announce that Grief Counselors are on the scene. Whew! Thank God! Everything will be OK, now! It seems like they arrive before the rescuers or the police. Do they have CB radios in their cars so they can get there right away? Are people actually waving flashlights to direct the Grievees to those needing grief maintenance? The bodies are still warm, while the Grief Counselors are busy gathering up anyone they can find to hold their hands, wipe their brows and shove business cards in their pockets.
When a High School kid loses control of a vehicle causing a deadly accident, which is usually the result of excessive speed, inadequate driving experience and/or alcohol/substance abuse, the school administrators dial the red Grief Phone to bring in a dozen or so counselors for the other students. Do you think the school officials would ever call a Priest, Minister, Rabbi, Mullah, or Monk to help the grievers? Not likely with the separation of Church and State and all. I would prefer my tax dollars go to feeding jobless pimps, buying dinners and plane rides for Politicos, providing condoms to those who won’t use them, cutting the grass on the White House lawn, saving the Clanwilliam Redfin, overpaying Defense Contractors, setting killers free to kill again, determining coffee is bad then good then bad then good then bad then good perpetually, or any other worthwhile cause.
Let’s put the grief ball back in the court of family and friends.
Bake My Fish
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