The Journey From Angry Young Man to Old Man Yelling @ Clouds, or; What a Long Strange Trip It Continues to Be

My journey started innocently enough: I plopped outta me mum and began ranting immediately, as I saw the doctor was inappropriately dressed for the occasion. More mewling followed, until I discovered "Language." After that, I waxed rhapsodic on many a topic, my soapbox-of-choice being a rather ungainly and (in hindsight) rickety set of unusually tall monkey bars. Then...the discovery of my true super power: Swearing Mightily!

I was quite the Angry Young Man for a long (some would say, "too long") time. But as the realization of Mortality has set in, I realize what a difficult, strange journey I am on, like the rest, begging the question: how does one transition from AYM to Old Man Yelling at Clouds?

It reminds me of the time I sailed across Lake Superior on a dinghy the size of a very large shoe (why anyone thought to name that lake "Superior" is beyond me, as there are several examples of better in Minnesota and Wisconsin, including a charming, though smaller, example just outside the Fon Du Lac area named for a once proud, though little remembered by history (due to the horribly racist policies of the Jackson administration) Native American tribe, though the name escapes me now as easily and completely as did the rascally cod I tried to wrangle on Day 3 of my excursion...but I digress and wax further rhapsodic....)

Anyway, t'was early on in my water-board adventure when I stumbled upon--rather, nearly sailed over--a merchant marine floating on what can only be described as a pile of rubbish loosely bound together by what appeared to be strands of his own hair. He was resplendent in his own way: well-worn boots that had clearly seen soil from Jakharta, Tripoli, Bangladesh, and more than a few Seattle night clubs at the height of grunge; pants and shirt from an ancient Sears collection; a long, scruffy beard that popped out in every direction from his jaw, complimented by an unusually thin, wispy mustache he must have gotten from his mother's side; no hair could be seen as it was apparently tucked away under a disconcertingly jaunty red wool cap. As I barely steered clear of this unusual sight, this man began swearing at me in the most profane, yet creative, of ways. (He was obviously the Shakespeare of sailor-talk.) Called into question were the following (though not necessarily in this order as his obscene observations looped back over themselves numerous times): my character; my mother's moral certitude and chastity; my father's ability to pick out healthy cattle; my sister's ability in the art of love; the size of my dinghy, and; the legitimacy of my birth.

As I sailed ever further away from this Tasmanian Devil of a Tourette's-afflicted example of the basest human creature ever to straddle a piece of flotsam, I was so stunned I could barely make reply. Finally, my days as Captain of the debate team at a famously prestigious university I need hardly mention (though, if you are interested, I shall send my CV for your perusal) came to bear and serve me well as I crafted the most succinct, cutting, and concise comeback in the history of history. I steeled myself again' the waves of the lake (again, not exactly "Superior," but they presented a challenge to me yet-to-be-developed sea legs, as this was early in my adventure, as I said), put one foot 'pon the edge of my craft, and replied:

"Go bloviate yerself!"

Judging by his stunned silence, I can only conclude it was the first exposure to bloviation as witty rejoinder of which he'd ever been the target.