All Quiet on the Western Front and at Fernbrook Resort in Freelton

All Quiet on the Western Front and at Fernbrook Resort in Freelton

My apologies to Erich Maria Remarque for stealing the title of his wonderful book. But the title is so apt and the book’s true message, anti-war, is so fitting.

Because things are quiet.

The dog feces flinging seems to have stone cold stopped. Though it’s too soon too tell about the cigarette butts. And I haven’t even discussed the kiwi (fruit not the bird), cauliflower, pink chewing gum etc. etc. It’s long list.

But if the flock at Fernbrook are going to behave – then maybe the ‘war’ is over.

Though if it is over that would mean that perhaps someone of Fernbrook Resort had found this blog. And decided that while they liked to fire… they didn’t have the stomach to be fired upon. And have run away. Which seems unlikely. Because the only thing expanding faster than the universe is the Internet. Meaning this tiny blog is unlikely to ever be found. Let alone read. But if this blog has been found... the only person(s) that could connect these writings to the writer would be the dog feces flingers. The cigarette butt tossers. And so on. The bullies. Because I haven’t breathed a word of complaint to even one soul.

Why haven’t I complained?

Today I’m a tubby wide load and very much out of shape. But growing up I was a decent athlete who could score and very often was a captain to boot. As a captain you have to lead by setting a positive example. Or else the team will disintegrate. As an offensive presence (a double entendre for those who might not recognize such) you can’t instigate or retaliate because you can’t score sitting in the bin. You have to tolerate the cheap shots (another double entendre for those who might not recognize such) and know that one of the boys has your back. And, truthfully, I always knew that one of the boys had my back. It’s much easier to be tolerant when you know that a wrong will soon be righted.

So, even today, I am still extremely tolerant of bad behaviour.

I have a long fuse.

Unfortunately when you’re faced with mean people they often mistake the long fuse for someone who has no fuse at all. They think you’re a whipping boy. And so when you finally raise a fist – they get confused.

"HEY, you can’t fight back, you’re a whipping boy. You’re supposed to sit there and take it. I don’t want to fight anymore."

Boo hoo hoo hoo cry me a blog.

Bullies can dose it out only until it forced to taste their own mean medicine – then the self-righteous crying begins.

Meanness is self perpetuating. A perpetual motion machine. When you let it. But what good is perpetual motion that doesn’t accomplish anything? Movement that just keeps you spinning in circles is a waste of time and energy.

An exercise in useless.

I know for some people that being mean is like a dose of cocaine. It gives them an inexpensive high. But a high they constantly need more of. So they get meaner.

For me being mean to someone else is like stabbing myself in the heart. Then carrying a ten thousand pound weight. It’s a heavy load. I have a heavy conscience.

So I just can’t do it.

When faced with mean people (or people I think might be mean) I do my best to avoid them. Be polite. Say as few words as possible. Exit stage left. And take the long way home. ‘X’ them out. I just don’t need pointless drama. If I did I would watch reality television twenty-four seven.

And if any of the Fernbrook chickens, who I believe at least some of to be employees or their close friends, and who fling feces, steal library materials, toss cigarettes etc. etc. were to somehow find this blog?

If this ‘war’ is over, than I forgive you for your mean behaviors.

Though while I forgive your behaviors in no way do I excuse them.

All the same I am quite willing to let bygones be bygones.

And let sleeping dogs lie.

Take the hint.



Please.