Fore-Get Your Manners? A Rant for the Pretentious Hackers Among Us

Golf. A prestigious sport…. A gentleman’s game, if you will…

But let’s cut the crap, shall we?

Not all golfers are gentlemen. Hell, some of them wouldn’t recognize prestige if it hit them in the balls with a titanium driver.

Now, I’m not a golfer myself, never been seduced by the sweet call of the tee box or the overpriced polos that scream, “Look at me, I peaked in sales in 2007.”

But I’ve seen the species in the wild. And let me tell you: some of y’all are straight-up asshats in khakis.

Take today, for example.

A group of golfers swaggered into a local restaurant. Loud. Obnoxious. Drunker than a frat house on Thirsty Thursday…..probably halfway through their “18 holes, 18 beers” challenge.

A server, politely and professionally, asked them to move to the lounge area.

Did they listen? Of course not.

Because these clowns think being on a golf course gives them the same entitlement as a hedge fund manager with no prenup.

They ignored the staff, crumpled up the empty cans they brought in themselves (classy), and tossed them on the bar top like some sort of tribute to their own ego.

Translation: “Clean this up, peasant. I birdied on the back nine.”

Now, hold your fire, gentle readers.

I know plenty of golfers who are respectful, down-to-earth, and genuinely enjoy the game without being raging douche rockets.

This blog ain’t about them. This is about those guys. You know the ones.

The obnoxious, performative alpha bros who use the links like a stage to act out their washed-up glory days and imaginary stripper conquests.

These are the guys who use golf as an excuse to escape their wives, talk over bartenders, and pretend they’re important while bragging about a “hole-in-one” they took three mulligans to get.

Listen up, fellas:

The next time you suit up in your finest pink taco polo and fire up your ego for 18 holes of mediocre golf, try doing the world a favor:

Hydrate with some water between your Bud Light baptisms. Tip your servers like humans, not minions. Keep your war stories under 100 decibels and for the love of the green jacket, don’t treat public places like your damn rec room.

Nobody cares about your fairway fairy tales, your career in whatever, your miserable home life, or the crushed beer cans you leave like breadcrumbs for someone else to clean.

Wanna pretend to be somebody important?

Fine….. Just do it a little quieter, with a little less trash, and a whole lot more respect for the people around you.

Because in the end, you’re not impressing anyone.

You’re just another guy with a golf glove, a God complex, and a growing tab of poor behavior.

Don’t Call Me Woke, Call Me Awake

A political awakening from a gun-owning, mountain biking realist.

I’m a gun-owner, a moderate beer-drinking business owner, and someone who once wore a badge and carried a gun for work.

A full-blown, red-voting Republican.

I used to think I had it all figured out…. work hard, follow the law, vote red, and the rest will fall into place. But over the past few elections… something shifted.

The shouting got louder. The division got deeper. The “shove-it-down-your-throat” politics came from both sides. And suddenly, I realized I wasn’t seeing clearly, I was riding a wave that wasn’t mine anymore.

So I got off the board. I started looking at the game being played:

The media, the politicians, the social warlords in comment sections….. all invested in keeping us fighting each other while they cash checks and call it freedom.

Now? I’m wide awake.

I’m still 2A all day, that hasn’t changed. But I’m also pro-choice, a supporter of equality, and an advocate for something this country sorely lacks: compassionate realism.

Adults evolve. Or at least they should.

Staying locked in an ideology just because your job, your friends, or your family expect you to? That’s not loyalty. That’s fear.

Culture wars are bullshit.

Most of you don’t think for yourselves anymore, you’re too busy parroting slogans or yelling at strangers online.

But I’m done with all that. I’m choosing consciousness and common sense.

I’m choosing to think, to listen, to question. I’m choosing what’s right, not what’s red or blue.

So no, I’m not “woke.” But I am awake. And that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous.

If you’re feeling politically homeless, guess what? You’re not alone.

Join the club. We meet wherever logic and decency still exist.

Smokers, Rules, and the Art of Selective Illiteracy

Let’s talk about smokers. Not all smokers, just the ones who treat “No Smoking” signs like they’re written in invisible ink.

Why do they all seem to have the same rebellious software installed? You know the kind: the “rules-don’t-apply-to-me” update that activates the moment they pull out a lighter. There are plenty of places that allow smoking. Plenty. And yet, here they are, posted up like a chimney in front of a “No Smoking” sign, puffing away like they’re auditioning for a Grease trilogy.

And let’s not ignore the universal move: flick the butt on the ground even when a perfectly good ashtray is right. freaking. there. Why? Is this a ritual? A silent protest? Or is the cigarette acting like a homing device for the lowest level of human courtesy?

So I have to ask:

What is it about being a smoker that makes you allergic to rules?

Is it the outdated cool factor? Because spoiler alert, this isn’t the 1960s, and you’re not James Dean. You’re not a misunderstood rebel without a cause. You’re a grown adult puffing out clouds of cancer in an area not designated for you.

Let’s be honest:

Nobody around you likes your smoke. They tolerate it like a bad blind date…. silently, awkwardly, and with as much distance as humanly possible. But conflict avoidance is real, and most people would rather ghost you in real time than say, “Hey man, take that carcinogen cloud elsewhere.”

Now, maybe smoking comes with some lesser-known side effects:

Loss of the ability to read clearly printed signage. Compulsive littering disorder. Sudden-onset social obliviousness.

I’m not sure what it is, but if I ran the show? Oh boy. I’d make the penalty for smoking hit you where it hurts the most, “the bank account” and “forced to pick up every butt in town”.

Until then, here’s a free piece of advice for my ash-slinging friends:

If you must smoke:

Step away from the crowd. Step away from the “No Smoking” sign (like, way away). And for the love of lung butter, put that butt in a damn ashtray.

You’re not the villain in a noir film. You’re a grown-up. Act like it.

When Silence Is Louder Than Justice

Sexual Assault, Sports, and the Failure to Protect Women

Let’s stop pretending this is rare. Sexual assault in sports isn’t an anomaly, it’s a pattern. A protected ritual hiding behind jerseys, contracts, and team loyalty. And it’s not just pro leagues sweeping it under the rug; it starts right in our hometowns.

Take my backyard: Steubenville, Ohio.

2012. High school football players sexually assaulted an unconscious 16-year-old girl.

They documented it.

They laughed about it.

They shared it online like trophies.

And what did the town do? The school protected its winning team. Local law enforcement dragged their feet until the internet and a fired-up community said, “Hell no.” Only then after national outrage, after Anonymous stepped in, after the girl was humiliated a second time in the media, did charges get filed. Not because the system worked, but because it was forced to.

Sound familiar?

Fast forward to 2025:

Five Hockey Canada players—pros now—stood accused of gang sexual assault. The recent verdict?

Not guilty.

Not because it didn’t happen—because it couldn’t be “proven” beyond reasonable doubt.

Because victims still need to be perfect to be believed. Because fame is a shield and a silencer.

Sports Culture Is Broken

These aren’t isolated incidents. They’re symptoms of a larger disease where:

Coaches turn a blind eye to “locker room talk.” Administrators protect the team’s image over a survivor’s dignity. Fans excuse everything with, “Well, we don’t know the whole story…”

We do know the story.

We just don’t like what it says about us.

This Isn’t Cancel Culture. It’s Consequence Culture.

When we don’t hold people accountable, we teach young men that their talent buys silence. That winning games matters more than respecting women. That they can violate a body, ruin a life, and still get drafted, get cheered, and get away with it.

Meanwhile, survivors get retraumatized, scrutinized, threatened, and erased.

The Numbers Don’t Lie:

Every 68 seconds, an American is sexually assaulted. Only 1 in 4 will report it. Out of 1,000 perpetrators, only 25 will see prison.

RAINN Statistics

NSVRC Data

Real Cases, Real Silence:

Isaiah Bond, NFL prospect—accused, sues accuser. Read More Artemi Panarin, NHL player—accused by a team employee, settled privately. Read More Hockey Canada 5—acquitted, but not absolved. Read More

Steubenville Showed Us One Thing:

When we speak up loudly, relentlessly, change happens.

No institution protects its image more fiercely than a winning sports program.

But no force is stronger than a community that says, “We will not be silent.”

If You Need Help:

RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network)

800-656-HOPE (4673)

rainn.org

Let’s call it what it is: a cultural crisis.

And the next time someone tells you, “Boys will be boys,”

you tell them:

“Then boys will face consequences.”

Ohio’s Child Support System: A Broken, Biased Mess

“Child support is for the child.”

That’s what they say.

But in Ohio? That’s nothing more than a slogan slapped on a dysfunctional system that’s more interested in collecting payments than protecting kids.

Once that money leaves the paying parent’s hands, it vanishes into a legal void. There’s zero accountability. No oversight. No receipt trail. Just blind faith that the receiving parent is doing the right thing. Spoiler alert: blind faith has no place in family law.

More Than Just a Monthly Payment

Since 2007, I’ve paid $85,020.19 in court-ordered child support. Let that number marinate for a second. Nearly ninety grand, a life-changing amount of money. That alone should’ve guaranteed a stable, secure future for my son. But guess what?

Not one cent was put aside for college.

Not one cent was saved for his future.

No savings account. No investment plan. No “just in case” cushion.

That’s nearly $90,000… spent. Gone. With nothing left to show for it.

And here’s the kicker: I didn’t just pay what the state demanded. I paid for his health insurance, car insurance, his actual car, sports equipment, school supplies, and the random expenses that pop up when you’re actually involved in your kid’s life.

Not because I had to.

Because I wanted to.

Because I’m a dad. And that’s what dads do.

So… Where Does the Money Go?

Ohio doesn’t regulate how child support is spent. You read that right.

There’s no law saying it has to go toward housing, food, school supplies or hell, even the child at all.

The state provides a prepaid debit card, and from that point on, it’s the Wild West. Buy groceries? Sure. Pay rent? Maybe. Hit the casino or get a mani-pedi? Who’s gonna stop ‘em? No one. Because there’s no accountability. No reporting. No receipts. No questions asked.

To be clear, some parents receiving support do the right thing.

But when they don’t?

The state doesn’t care.

Meanwhile, those of us footing the bill are often the same ones still buying the actual things the child needs…. while the system pats itself on the back for “ensuring support.”

A System Stacked Against Fathers

Let’s talk about the giant, unspoken bias baked into Ohio’s family courts.

You can be the more responsible parent.

You can be the consistent one.

You can show up, pay up, and shut up for years.

And none of it matters.

Because in Ohio, the system doesn’t care about fairness.

It cares about compliance and your wallet.

Trying to get a fair hearing as a father? Prepare for legal purgatory.

Need to modify your support order due to a job loss or medical issue? Be ready for months (if not years) of legal wrangling, interest penalties, and threats of wage garnishment, license suspension, or jail time.

Meanwhile, the parent receiving the money? They can mismanage funds, fail to contribute their share, or flat-out neglect the child’s needs, and face zero consequences.

Explain how that’s justice. I’ll wait.

Let me be crystal clear:

The only reason my son has anything saved for college or whatever he decides to do, is because my parents stepped in.

They saw the dysfunction.

They watched me pay and pay, while nothing was saved.

So they opened an account, funded it monthly, and made sure he had what the support system never guaranteed.

They also picked up the slack, buying school supplies, clothes, and other basics when support money wasn’t even being passed on to him.

Let that sink in.

While I paid the state, my parents supported the child.

Here’s the Bottom Line:

Child support is supposed to be about the child.

But in Ohio, it’s about bureaucracy, bias, and blindly processed payments.

If the state actually cared about children, they’d require transparency.

They’d enforce receipts, spending reports, and shared accountability.

They’d treat both parents like equal contributors, not walking ATMs and lucky recipients.

Until that happens, parents like me will keep paying not only what the state demands but everything else our children truly need…. while the system shrugs and fails the very people it claims to protect.

It’s time for reform. It’s time for oversight. And it’s damn well time for fairness.

Fish & Road Rage Fits

A very much needed renovation to Long John Silver’s has wrapped up and the seafood slingers are back in action. Newer, nicer, and busier than ever!

The grand re-opening? Honestly, it might be the most exciting thing to hit Weirton in years. Is it the new hot spot? Maybe. People do love to chase shiny things. And while it’s not an entirely new restaurant, it is a fresher, cleaner, better version of a local classic, and that matters.

From day one, it’s been packed. Cars parked every which way around the building, and drive-thru lines wrapped around like it was giving away PS5s with hush puppies.

For three straight days, the lines poured onto Main Street like it was a deep-fried parade.

I haven’t gone yet, I’m not about that wait-in-line life. I’ll let the hype simmer down and swoop in later for my seafood fix and a little low-key support.

But I have driven by daily, and I’ve gotta say: it’s been heartwarming to see the crowds. A strong showing of community support. I even toss a horn honk or two on my way home from work, just to shout out the hardworking crew wrapping up their shift. A little love never hurt.

But of course… cue the complainers.

Social media lit up like a fish fryer on Good Friday:

Post one: “So proud of our community!”

Post two: “Who designed this parking lot? Stevie Wonder?”

Divide and fry: half the town is cheering, the other half is deep-diving into Google Reviews with pitchforks and pettiness.

Listen, these workers were trained and then immediately thrown into chaos. This wasn’t a normal soft opening with gentle trickles of customers. Nah, they got slammed from minute one with every fish fanatic in a 20-mile radius. So maybe be a little more understanding and patient.

Let’s talk parking. Yeah… it’s still trash. You knew it would be. You remember what it was like before; tight spaces, weird angles, chaotic traffic flow. They rebuilt the restaurant, not the land around it. You knew what you were walking into.

So if you see a line stretching down Main Street like the Christmas parade is starting, maybe just… keep driving? Come back later? Be part of the solution instead of acting like you were personally wronged by a fish sandwich?

Honestly, I love seeing a small business get this kind of attention, especially one that’s been around this long. They deserve some slack, some grace, and a whole lot of gratitude.

To the crew at LJS: you’re killin’ it. Keep doing your thing. I’ll stop in soon to support in person…when things calm down and I can get my chicken planks in peace.

And to the serial complainers out there?

If you don’t have anything nice to say…

Hush, Puppy.

Just Another Campfire Story: Letting the Flames Die

This is the last campfire story, not because I ran out of thoughts, but because I finally found peace in the silence. For those of you still sitting around the flame, asking questions no one wants to answer, this one’s for you.

The fire’s low now. Flickering. Calmer than it’s ever been. I’ve poked at these embers long enough searching for truth, confronting the smoke of my upbringing, watching belief burn down into questions that no one really wants to ask. Or answer. But here I am, one last time, not to provoke, but to process.

Because I get it. I really do. People need someone to believe in. We’re comfort creatures. We need purpose, structure, hope. We want to believe that pain has a reason, that good gets rewarded, and bad gets punished. It’s a neat little story. Clean. Tidy. A divine system of justice and eternal hugs for the righteous. I believed it once, too. Until I didn’t.

And now? Now I believe in a different kind of story. A messier, grittier, more beautiful one.

The Science of the Spark

Let’s rewind this thing. Back past Moses and his tablets. Past the prophets, the disciples, and the pastors with earpieces and private jets. Let’s go back to the real beginning, 13.8 billion years ago. Boom. The Big Bang. A moment of everything from nothing. No heavens, no hells. Just space, time, and the raw chaotic birth of a universe.

Stars were born. Planets formed. And on one tiny pale blue dot, over billions of years, the building blocks of life collided, split, and slowly crawled from the sea. A single-cell amoeba. The humble ancestor of everything from trees to tyrannosaurs to that guy who still yells about “creationism” at school board meetings.

From cell to self-aware. From instinct to imagination. From hands dragging in the dirt to hands reaching for the stars. That, to me, is the miracle. Not dust and ribs and talking snakes. But molecules mastering math. That we are the universe made conscious.

No need for a puppet master in the sky. Just awe at the natural laws that don’t need belief to be true.

The Book That Became Law

Let’s talk about the book, the Bible. It’s brought comfort to billions. It’s also been weaponized for wars, colonization, and justifying some serious nonsense. Is there truth in it? Of course there’s truth in Harry Potter too, if you squint right. That doesn’t make either one a science textbook.

One line that sticks out:

“Lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3:5

Sounds harmless, right? Encouraging, even. But think about what it’s really saying: Don’t trust yourself. Don’t question. Submit. That’s not faith, that’s control. That’s obedience dressed up in poetry.

But if you do lean on your understanding, on curiosity, skepticism, logic..:. suddenly, the path isn’t straight. It’s winding and uncertain, yes. But it’s yours. And that’s where meaning lives.

So What Is Faith?

Here’s a take that ruffles feathers:

Faith doesn’t have to involve a god.

Faith can be trust. Hope. Love. Belief in each other. In progress. In the idea that this brief, messy life can still be beautiful and kind, even without someone watching from above.

Faith is the single mom who keeps showing up.

Faith is the nurse pulling double shifts.

Faith is falling in love even after heartbreak.

Faith is planting a tree you’ll never see grow.

That’s not divine. That’s human.

Sin, Guilt, and the Great Con

Confess your sins, and you’ll be absolved. That’s the promise, right? Swipe your moral debit card and walk away debt-free. But let’s be honest, it doesn’t work like that. Not really.

Confession might feel good. Might ease guilt. But it doesn’t undo the harm. It doesn’t erase the consequence. Redemption takes change. Forgiveness takes accountability. Not just whispering in a dark booth and tossing a few “Hail Marys” around like spiritual breath mints.

You want absolution? Start with action. Own your mistakes. Do the work. Be better… not because you’re afraid of hell, but because you care.

Letting the Flames Die

So no, I don’t believe in God. Not anymore. But I believe in you. I believe in people who try. Who think. Who hurt and heal and still show up. Who keep the fire going even when it burns them.

And if you do believe in God? I’m not here to mock that. If your fire brings you comfort, peace, love, then sit around it. Stoke it. But don’t use it to burn others down.

As for me? I’ve let my fire die. Not in defeat, but in peace.

Because maybe the best part of not having all the answers… is finally being okay with that.

Sources & Further Reading” section like this:

https://humanists.uk/humanism/

https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/atheism-agnosticism/

https://humanorigins.si.edu/evidence

https://science.nasa.gov/astrophysics/focus-areas/what-powered-the-big-bang/

Public Schools Pay the Price for West Virginia’s “Hope”

They call it the Hope Scholarship. But let me be clear: for public schools in West Virginia, especially the rural ones, there’s not a whole lot of hope left in the tank.

While lawmakers pitch it as “school choice,” what we’re really seeing is public dollars quietly rerouted into out-of-state private schools, luxury learning extras, and tech gadgets…. all while local classrooms go underfunded and overlooked.

Where’s the Money Actually Going?

A recent investigation found $22 million in Hope funds spent on:

Out-of-state private schools. iPads and MacBooks. Dance and art studios. Online programs not even based in West Virginia

Let that sink in. Your tax dollars, meant for West Virginia’s kids, being funneled into places and services outside the state, with little accountability.

Can you imagine being a small-town teacher trying to scrape together markers for your class while the state’s education funds are buying someone’s kid an iPad or ballet lessons across the border?

That ain’t equity. That’s elitism on the taxpayer’s dime.

Source: WV Watch – Dec. 2024

The Toll on Public Schools: Death by 1,000 Vouchers.

Let’s not pretend this isn’t strategic.

Every student who leaves public school under the Hope Scholarship takes about $4,700 of state funding with them. Multiply that by the thousands of students enrolled in the program and you’ve got millions bleeding out of your public system.

Small, rural schools feel it the worst. They already operate on shoestring budgets. Now they’re losing kids, staff, and resources and being told to do more with even less.

A June 2024 editorial hit it hard:

“This isn’t just about school choice. It’s about a deliberate dismantling of public education.”

Let’s call it what it is: legalized defunding.

Source: WV Watch – June 2024

Who’s Really Winning?

Wealthier families, that’s who!

Let’s face it: $4,700 doesn’t cover most private school tuitions. So if you’re a parent who already had the resources to pay that extra $2-3K? Congrats, you just got a taxpayer discount.

Meanwhile, lower-income parents can’t cover the difference. Can’t afford the homeschooling time or tech. And still rely on underfunded public schools getting weaker by the day.

The gap between “choice” and “privilege” has never been more obvious.

What’s the Real Goal?

Let’s connect the dots:

Pull money out of public schools. Watch them struggle. Label them as “failing.” Justify even more funding cuts. Say “school choice” is the answer.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Designed failure. All under the cute name “Hope.”

But when your local high school has to cancel art class or shut down a sports program while another kid gets Hope-funded piano lessons in another state? That’s not hope. That’s hypocrisy.

It’s Time to Ask the Hard Questions

Who do we want to lift up?

Who deserves opportunity?

And why are we okay with a system that gives more to those who already have more?

West Virginia kids deserve strong public schools not some flashy “choice” that only works for the privileged few.

It’s not about hope.

It’s about priorities.

And right now? They’re all kinds of backwards.

An Adventure Seekers Security Nightmare

Are you seeking security or adventure?

Today’s daily prompt asks a deceptively simple question:

Are you seeking adventure… or security?

I’ve always been an adventure seeker. From a young age into adulthood, my compass pointed toward the good times. Security? Yeah, I flirted with it once. Late bloomer, career-wise, but I had a plan, a real one with steps and everything. I was finally on a path that led to a retirement.

Spoiler alert: I took a detour. And then another one. And then a few more after that.

Now? That whole “clear-cut road to retirement” is more like an overgrown trail with a “Good Luck!” sign and a raccoon holding my pension papers.

Security? What security? I’ve got an IRA. Started late, and it’s sitting at around $30K. Do the math, at 52, that’s not security… that’s a decent used truck.

And toss in the risk of the business not lasting? That right there would nuke any tiny seeds of stability I’ve been trying to plant.

Here’s the truth: I lived for the moment, every step of the way. The adventures were worth it, until they weren’t. Until I looked around and realized the future doesn’t build itself.

Would I do it all again? Maybe.Probably. But I’d tell my younger self this:

“Don’t blow off responsibilities for the next thrill. Play it smart. Have fun, sure but plan for the ultimate adventure: a life with some damn security.”

Because the best view isn’t just from the top of the mountain, it’s being able to sit there without worrying how you’ll afford the ride back down.

A Story of Someone, or No One At All

What happens when you think you’re someone, when you feel like you’ve got some kind of purpose, a label, a role to play. And then suddenly, it feels like none of it matters?

Who are you really?

A son? A daughter?

A friend? A colleague?

A parent, a partner, a person with people?

And what if you’re not any of those?

What if you’re floating, no anchor, no mirror reflecting back anything solid?

Is it okay to be no one?

There are two kinds of people in this weird-ass identity crisis club:

The ones for whom being someone is never enough. And the ones for whom being someone feels like carrying a boulder uphill.

Me? I wake up every day wondering if I’m someone who matters.

Not to the world, I don’t need headlines or hashtags.

Just to someone. Anyone.

Am I helpful?

Am I kind?

Am I really present, or just filling a chair in someone else’s story?

You might say I am.

You might list the ways I show up and shine.

But I don’t always believe it….. because sometimes, the loudest voice is the one whispering, “You’re not enough.”

Still… I try.

Every damn day.

I try to be something to somebody.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s enough.

So whether you’re beelining toward purpose or drifting like a lost balloon in a storm… don’t give up.

Continue to be you.

Because somebody out there thinks you’re something.

And that? That’s everything.