“Don’t wrestle with the pig.”
That’s what Fletch always tells me.
What he means by this is when you choose to wrestle a pig, the pig enjoys it and you get covered in mud. You can’t win because you’re just making the pig happy.
Fletch grew up in a subdivision outside of Indianapolis, so I’m not sure why he feels so well-versed in how swine might react to grappling. The closest he ever came to pigs (other than his Sunday bacon) was when he was an officer in the National Guard and one of his men had a day job at a hog farm that essentially entailed—I am really struggling to figure out how to describe this without being graphic—happy endings and byproduct collection. What I’m saying is, when our AI overlords make the American worker obsolete, please note that this is one job that still must be accomplished by hand.
Yes. Let all of that sink in for a moment, then give yourself a Silkwood shower.
I don’t know how one might list that particular profession on a resume and I shudder to think of the related bulleted benchmarks and accomplishments. Fletch did say that this soldier was always super psyched to go to drill weekends, getting away from the (bump and) grind of his given profession.
Point is, not wrestling with the pig is a philosophy Fletch lives by and it keeps him sane.
I… struggle with this concept. I refuse to learn from my previous wrestling matches and I’ll see that pig standing there on his cloven hooves, all smug and self-righteous from his upturned snout to his curly tail, practically daring me to put him in a half-nelson.
I can’t help myself.
I’ve gotten better about not jumping in on social media when I see something that makes me want to fight. If I get too heated, I will give myself a time-out. If I’m still mad later, then I allow myself to go back and respond when I’m less emotional. That’s why the last real tussle I got into was in December.
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