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I just read an article about the human flag. According to the author, the human flag is the ultimate test of strength. If you can hold yourself parallel to the ground, completely straight, at arms’ length, from a vertical pole, you are very strong. No argument there. As I looked at the pictures, however, I found doubt—not doubt that it could be done, but doubt that I could ever do it.
There is a relevant quote I like from the New Testament: “Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.’” (Matthew 19:24-26) I believe that, but I wonder sometimes about its practical application. Did Jesus mean that God would make it possible for me to do the human flag? If I pray for this skill, will it come to me?
There is a Christian flag, and it flies to honor God. A human flag, however, flies for the honor of the person who can do it. Do you suppose observers might see a human flag and remember that Matthew quote? More likely, people would comment on the strength of the individual.
And that is why I find it hard to pray for the ability to be a human flag. Could God grant me this ability? Sure He could. But what would be the point? How self-absorbed must I be to ask for that one? ‘Dear, God—please help me to do the human flag.’ Of all the things I could pray for, if freak show strength is at the top of my list, I think I’ve got issues.
Of course it sounds ludicrous when you put it that way, but these desires of ours rarely occur to us in isolation. They are lost in the clutter of our other thoughts, and in that context, they don’t seem so outlandish. It is only when we stop to think that it occurs to us that we might be ridiculously self absorbed.
Honestly, if we could do the human flag, do you suppose we would you find a lot of opportunities to show it off? And when we did, what would others say? Would they be impressed or would they roll their eyes and grumble “show off” under their breath?
I think there is a reason why Miss America always wishes for world peace and you never hear, “I wish I could do the human flag” at beauty pageants. It is because when you stop to think about it, world peace is a much better goal than the human flag. Plus, when you ask for world peace, people don’t look at you like you’re the most self absorbed person on the planet.
Today is Memorial Day. It is a day for remembering those fallen in battle defending this great country of ours. Since many of you are off work, this day also presents an opportunity to stop and think. As you meditate, I hope you will each take a moment to pray for the ability to do the impossible. Remember that “all things are possible…”
Just try to keep things in perspective. It is Memorial Day, after all.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
When I find extra change in the slot of a vending machine, I sometimes feel like I’ve hit a little mini jackpot. Do you know that feeling?
I still remember the time when I was a kid that I found $5 on the sidewalk. Over the years, I’ve found nickels and dimes, too, and I’m always happy to stoop over to pick them up. This week, I dropped two pennies, and I didn’t pick them because they were pennies but those pennies motivated thoughts of gleaning.
Gleaning is basically picking up the scraps from a harvested field. In the Old Testament book of Ruth, Boaz instructed harvest workers to purposely leave a little grain for Ruth to glean. Our lives don’t have many opportunities to facilitate that type of gleaning of a harvested crop, but we do have a chance here and there to promote gleaning of a slightly different variety.
A. J. Jacobs first put this idea in my head last year when I read his book “The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible.“ I enjoyed the book, but I do not recommend it as a guide for Christians. I did find his discussion of gleaning interesting, however, and I even experimented a little with it.
For a while, I was intentionally leaving change in vending machines. One day someone noticed that I had forgotten my change, and I foolishly said that I hadn’t. He was positive that I had, so I tried to explain: I didn’t forget to collect that change. I was leaving it on purpose for someone to find. The idea that someone would be happy to find that 35 cents made me happy in a way that having the same 35 cents in my pocket could not. This did not compute for my acquaintance, and it was an awkward moment.
I don’t like awkward moments, so I quit doing it a few days later. I didn’t like having to sneak around to leave a stupid quarter and a dime for someone who probably didn’t need it anyway. But the idea stuck with me, and those pennies brought it back.
Here is my suggestion on how to promote gleaning: Carry a few bucks in your pocket with your keys at all times. Ladies, you can do this in your pocketbooks. Wad the bills up, toss them in, and never spend them. If a homeless person comes up to you, hand him all of the crumpled up ones. If you drop the ones while getting your keys out, for example, leave them on the ground for someone to glean.
This is only a good idea if you’re in a place where someone will find the bills, by the way. For example, you should not drop money in the backcountry while on a camping expedition since that won’t do anyone any good.
Once you’ve “lost” your money, replenish your stash with new bills. This may involve a trip to the bank. If you are rich, replace the ones with fives or tens or hundreds. I’d be happy to glean after you, if you drop thousands all over the place. That would really make my day.
If you are reading this note, you may not be dropping thousand dollar bills out of your pockets, but you are rich by many standards. Sharing your wealth is a nice thing to do, and it feels good. A few bucks won’t break the bank for any of us, and we won’t even “lose” them unless it is “meant to be.” You could find you never drop a buck–although I hope you won’t be too careful with those wadded up ones. The idea is to lose them once in a while. Otherwise, there will be no gleaning and there is no fun in that.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
I try to remain sensitive to my environment, so it is not uncommon for an occasional product idea to take shape in my mind. One product innovation is for a bathroom trash receptacle with special packaging.
I have noticed that Mrs. Hippo takes great joy in completely filling our small bathroom sized wastebasket. Usually, as soon as I empty it, she will scour the house for items that exactly fill it. Her favorite choices are the Sunday newspaper and empty vats of the shampoo she uses.
This is where my idea comes in. I believe there is a market for a trashcan with packaging that completely fills the inside in plug-like fashion. I have not completed my research, but I’m leaning toward some sort of heat sensitive hard plastic that will shrink just enough when you hit it with a hair dryer. Mrs. Hippo always has a hair dryer handy, and this requirement is not an imposition for our target shopper.
A quick blast of hot air and viola! The wrapping shrinks to the precise inside diameter of the bin! In and of itself, this would be a pretty compelling product, but here is the twist that really puts it over the top: The wrapper/plug thing is still hollow. A secret flap on the bottom (or the top, depending on your perspective) will allow spouses to dispose of trash inside the plug. Both personality types are happy!
It really is a perfect product idea. Wouldn’t you buy one of my trash bins if I get them to market? They’ll come in an array of wonderful colors and the FOMHIP logo will be optional.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
Inventor
There is a groundhog in my neighbor’s yard. It appears to be living a fear-free existence. I wonder what insight can be gleaned from a ground hog’s state of mind. Do you suppose groundhogs are able to remain happy with zombies in an area? I play a few zombie games on my XBOX, so from time to time, they cross my mind.
A few nights ago, I inadvertently roused the dogs from their 23-hour-a-day nap. They made known their desire to tour of the backyard, so I unleashed them on the night. They don’t care about the dark. When you sleep as much as they do, there is no such thing as a circadian rhythm. And dogs know nothing of zombies, so they raged down the back stairs to check on the neighbor’s groundhog and cats.
This is a fairly normal ritual at our house, but this night was a little different. For one thing, the dogs never barked. Silently they meandered the yard. This usually indicates no cats or hogs, and that usually results in a quick rebound to the back door. But they didn’t come right back, so I called for them. No answer. No running back up the hill. No bounding up the steps. Nothing.
I began squinting blindly into the yard looking for dog shapes. I thought I could maybe make out one Bonnie-shaped dog, but no sign of Moses. Have zombies killed Moses? Why does staring at a computer make me so blind to the dark? If I were to take a photo of myself after typing, would I be able to any pupils in the photo?
Back to the yard…Gradually, I began to develop a modicum of night vision. This was a slow process, but when a zombie warning is posted, I can be a patient man. I stood silently and without moving, wondering about zombies that might be smart enough to kill one dog and elude the other. This sounds more like burglars! No. That is more outrageous than zombies, but still I watched and waited.
I also need to tell you about some pea gravel we have near the pool. It makes a loud crunching noise when someone walks through it on a starless night. I know this because someone or something walked through it right before I jumped out of my skin. I abandoned my vantage at the base of the stairs and quickly ran for the house. In my frantic search for weapons, I settled on a shovel that would be handy in a zombie game. I practiced a few swings in the garage, right at about goozle level, and I imagined I had just the right zombie deterrent.
I was back in the yard before my eyes adjusted to the light. I resumed my vigil at the bottom of the stairs. I waited another five minutes before Moses sauntered up followed shortly by Bonnie. I looked closely at them and considered the shovel, but ultimately, I decided they were not zombie dogs after all.
The mental state of groundhogs may or may not be helpful in predicting zombies. This was a false alarm, so we’ll have to wait for another day before we solve that one, but I’ll be on guard. My trusty shovel and I will be on guard.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
I’ve developed a list of the “bongs of life.” These bongs are not drug bongs. They are roughly modeled after the beer bong. Mister Hippo doesn’t glorify drugs, so a beer-bong model it will be. Do you remember the beer bong?
A beer bong is a contraption that allows you to drink a beer (or two) in about a second. If you attach a long tube and a funnel, you have a beer bong. For our purposes in constructing this list, we’ll consider a bong a tool for transferring fluids in a hurry. The bongs of life are all about transferring fluids for various reasons.
The first bong of life is the breast. Babies, children, and men treasure this one. It starts us off, gets us going, and creates a maternal bond that is nearly impossible to break. As we approach mother’s day, we honor our mothers for the life they gave and nourished throughout the first bong of our lives.
The second bong of life is the beer bong. In our early twenties, we loved this diversion from the maturation process. The beer bong is responsible for many irresponsible acts and probably even a few deaths. We look back on our beer bong stage for years afterwards, initially with humor, later with embarrassment, and still later with acceptance and quiet nostalgia. The beer bong stage of life is short for some and extended for others, but it marks a passage from dependence to independence. It also marks our transition from bad judgment to maturity.
The third bong of life is the milk shake straw. Through it we pass our middle years, ingesting empty calories because we can afford them and because we’re free to do whatever we want. If we want a cookie before supper, we have one. Although it is very hard to suck a cookie through a milkshake straw, I think you get the idea.
The fourth bong of life is the juicer stage. Some people skip this stage, but others enjoy the ability to chug a glass of pureed radishes and cucumbers. This bong is often marked by an increased sense of mortality and a desire to extend life.
The fifth bong of life is the assisted living lunch bong. This bong is basically a glass with a cutout for your nose to fit more easily. The nice people who oversee the end of your life, puree meat, cake, vegetables, milk, water, and whatever else they find on the plastic plate, and glop it all down your throat. This bong marks the true beginning of old age. If you’re reading this with an assisted living bong attached to your face, you know what I mean. This bong is related to the juicer bong, but the motivation is completely different.
The sixth, and final, bong of life is a reverse bong. These are used for transferring fluids from you back to a bag. Some people call these catheters or colostomies, and while they are sometimes a temporary stage in midlife, they are usually an end stage bong. This bong often overlaps with the fifth bong of life.
What bongs have I missed, FOMHIPs? Let me know.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
f Mister Franklin lived with me, he might have written ‘Late to bed late to rise, makes a man healthy wealthy and wise.’ But Ben doesn’t live here, and his agreement is really not my concern. He and his buddies may roll out early, but I like to sleep ‘til noon every chance I get.
So perhaps you will understand if I was nudged slightly off my game by Mrs. Hippo’s o’dark thirty wake up call. From my dream clouds, I peered out at her, clinging to the hope of a silver lining. But this cloud had no silver lining. It was a rainy morning, and Mrs. Hippo’s car battery had expired. Since she was in mourning for her loss, I felt the only right thing was for her to take my truck.
She did not argue. She did chirp the tires as she tore out of our driveway for work, however. She was obviously content in the knowledge that Mister Hippo was on the case of the busted battery. I went back to bed, but I could not sleep. How would I solve this problem with only one car? Will AAA deliver a battery to your house? Ultimately, I decided to ride my motorcycle in the rain and deal with the battery later when I had two cars for the shell game.
It was not quite time for my commute, though. First, I had the opportunity to clean the kitchen floor. One of the dogs—probably Moses—somehow managed to store up about 5 gallons of urine before attempting to set a dog-pee record in our kitchen. I was too busy to verify the record, so you won’t see it in the book – despite the fact that it may have been a winning effort. For that extra touch, one of them had managed to get a foot in the pee pond before pacing every inch of floor. This left a nice pogo patch of dog pee about every 8 inches or so. Did I mention I was having one of those days?
I made it to work before the skies opened up, and I thought things might be on the upswing. No one cut me off or ran me over. I was even able to merge onto the highway without thoughts of murdering anyone for refusing to yield to oncoming traffic. Were the clouds breaking up a bit? It sure seemed like it!
At work, things were pretty sane. Although there were a few sour comments, I didn’t let them pull down my mood, which was starting to soar. No more dog pee for me. Ahhh…. work. But it was still just one of those days.
Rain peppered me at 60 miles per hour on the way home. I had donned my rain suit, so I wasn’t getting soaked, but I skipped the shoe covers. That was a mistake, and I got wet feet for the oversight. Riding in the rain is actually pretty miserable in the best of situations, but rain at night on the highway in Knoxville is a formula for a bad commute. Some guy with one bright light and one regular light tailgated me until I pulled over into the fast lane. Then he passed. What is that about? Does he not know to use the steering wheel?
Anyway, I made it to my neighborhood without too much else to note. Climbing the hill to my house, however, the back end of the bike lost traction and started to come around on me. I let off the throttle, tapped a foot down and righted the craft. The rubber side remained down and the shiny side up. The close call reminded me of the time the same thing happened on a rainy day in Columbus, Ohio. It is funny how you keep track of near misses in your life. Anyway, I was fine and I was almost home and I was just a few feet from a dry garage. I had almost made it! Then I realized that Mrs. Hippo had left no room for me to get into the garage.
Not that anyone cares, but my preference is for the cars to be parked far enough apart that I can pull between them. Mrs. Hippo’s preference is to park so close together that you have to enter through the outside doors or climb through a back window.
At this point, I started to conjure up the murderous thoughts I’d saved up from my “morning” commute when the merge had gone better than expected. “First, she kills her battery, then she wakes me at the crack of dawn leaving me to ride in the rain, and then she totally blocks my return entrance!”
This is where I made a bad decision. I tried to go around and cut through the super small gap around the front of her car (the one with the dead battery). I didn’t make it. Instead, I got the bike stuck in the flower bed. One wheel in the flower bed, and one on the other side of the sidewalk. I managed to dig a nice little hole, and I could not get unstuck without help.
The thought of Mrs. Hippo was sleeping obliviously called to me. Why should she sleep while I’m out here in the rain? So I stomped into the bedroom and said, “I need help.” She looked at me with the same look I must have given her that morning and asked, “Are we going out for ice cream?”
‘Of course not! Get your shoes on, I need you to come outside and pull on the back of my motorcycle while I jerk around on it from the saddle. We’ll look like a couple of idiots, but it is dark and I think the guy across the street’s night vision goggles are in the shop.’
I gave Mrs. Hippo some gloves, showed her where to pull, and corrected her when she tried to pull the blinkers off. Then we lurched the bike out of the flower bed, parked it, fixed the dead battery (since Mrs. Hippo bought a new one on her way home from work), moved the car out of the way and park the mud bike in the garage. All this before 1 a.m.!
As we went back into the house, Mrs. Hippo said, “I’m sorry you’ve had such a bad day.” And pushing all those mean thoughts for her out of my head, I shrugged and said, “Its just one of those days.”
I’m sure this one will be better.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
The difference between a shooting star and the non-shooting variety is all about perspective. Both stars are hurtling through space, but the shooting star seems to be going faster because we’re going in a different direction. Our perspective makes one seem to be a shooting star, but everything is moving along at a pretty good clip.
According to the internet, our entire galaxy is moving at a speed of c.370 mi per sec. I don’t even know what that “c.” means, but I bet it means something really fast!
Anyway, my rant today is about perspectives—not stars. What is our perspective of our own trajectories through life? Many of us are inclined to compare our accomplishments to those of the people we know. This is not especially helpful.
Let’s consider three possibilities:
1) Financially, you are doing better than your friends…much better. To them you appear to be a shooting star. They marvel at the speed with which you fly past, but you probably don’t think much about it. You’re likely to compare yourself to others who are doing better than yourself. To you, Bill Gates is a true shooting star.
2) Financially, you are doing the same as everyone else in your life. Ho hum. No shooting stars here. Even if we all live in huge houses and drive fancy cars.
3) Financially you are doing much worse than everyone else you know. To you, the world is filled with shooting stars. Every day is like that movie where Bruce Willis has to go drill a hole in a meteor to save the planet.
How can any of those three scenarios make you happier? Do any of them have the ability to provide a better house or car? Do any of them improve your chances of earning your next meal? How you are doing relative to me is of no use whatsoever!
In fact, a recent study showed that this focus on relative wealth is actually detrimental. The study found that people would make a decision that cost them money as long as it would leave them relatively better off than others. Think about that for a moment. People would rather have more than you…even if it means having less.
You don’t checkout at the supermarket with relative dollars. You need real dollars and lots of them if you shop around here. So why do people do these things? Because they are not aware of the self-destructive nature of needless competition.
I am all for competition where it motivates improvement, but when it motivates negative thoughts and fixations, we should ferret it out and rid it from our lives. We can’t value our own achievements if we lock into irrational comparisons. Take a minute to compare your life to the lives of poor people around the world. In that regard, you are very successful. In the eyes of the poor, you are a shooting star.
You are doing very well! You have a place to live. You have a group of friends. You are a FOMHIP. You are not starving. You are alive. You are a shooting star! So what if there are others flying along side. Take a moment to enjoy the view.
We are blessed to live in a time of great prosperity. We have creature comforts and discretionary wealth galore. We buy things we don’t even need. If others are with us, it makes the ride even better. A shared experience trumps a solo version every time.
Today, let’s focus on the positive and forget about relativity for a while. If you must compare yourself to others, always pick the poor. And if you feel guilty for having so much while they have so little, you have my permission to do something about that. Help them out. Help them find a way up. Help them join our fleet of shooting stars.
The world can always use another shooting star.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
When translated, the name Hong Kong means “fragrant harbor.” This occurred to me today while reading a story about swine flu. It seems Hong Kong is pretty paranoid about a flu outbreak because a bunch of people died a few years ago from SARS. So in response to a suspected case of pig flu, they quarantined a hotel full of guests.
“Welcome to Hong Kong. Take a deep breath of our fragrant harbor. You smell that? Yes? You like that? Yes? How about quarantine? How do you like that? You may just been exposed to the pig flu, so now you’re under quarantine! Step this way, please.”
According to the WSJ article, this particular hotel is near a bunch of bars and nightspots. That led me to wonder about the degree of partying that must be going on during the quarantine. Apparently, communal partying is discouraged, but some of the guests are getting together and making the best of it anyway.
One time I was on a typhoon evacuation to Yokota Air Base in Japan. When we arrived all the good places to stay were booked up, so the base stashed us all over the place. Some people ended up in the jail. A bunch of friends and I ended up in a medical evacuation hospital at the end of the runway. We pushed a bunch of bedside tables together and made a bar. We were “getting together and making the best of it.” No one wanted to go to sleep because it was so easy to push the beds out onto the runway. At least one person ended up outside in his bed. I think he may have been the guy who first suggested we call Yokota the “Y-Word,” and after that trip we always did.
Back to Hong Kong… The scene outside this hotel is really drawing in a bunch of reporters, which is a detail that has not gone unnoticed by the poor saps inside. So this one guy makes a sign and holds it up to the window. It says he will trade information for beer and cigarettes. I don’t smoke, but I like that sign. It is just perfect. Of course, he wants beer and cigarettes. He is quarantined!
And why exactly is this poor guy stuck in a hotel. Could it be because people are crazy? It makes no sense to quarantine for this. We let people roam around with all sorts of communicable stuff all the time. The medical community knows they have these things, but they say nothing.
Some of these communicable maladies that won’t get you quarantined actually have very bad track records. A lot of people have them and many people have died. What is the difference? In my humble opinion, it is this: The pig flu is big in the media at the moment, and it doesn’t yet have a group of lobbyists to protect the rights of its victims.
In the grand list of all the things that can kill you, the pig flu still is just a blip. It gets plenty of press, but it remains just a blip on the scope. Focusing on it is like watching a flight of birds on early warning radar while attacking planes take out your fleet. You have to exercise some pretty bad judgment to make that mistake.
But bad judgment drives our television news. People in the press like to say words like “pandemic,” and people of the earth like to wring their hands in fear. Well, “people of the earth, can you hear me?” Don’t worry about the flu. On the odds, lightning is more likely to strike you than this particular strain of the flu. Sooner or later something will get you, but odds are it won’t be this.
I suggest you get your affairs in order and wash your hands as much as you can, but I wouldn’t order that bubble boy outfit on the internet just yet.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
The people who sell candy sell assortments to unload horrific flavors no one wants.
Mrs. Hippo is fond of assorted gourmet jellybeans. I hate them because I always get the horrible flavors. If there is a burnt popcorn flavor, I’ll find it. This is worse than it should be because candy generally exudes no discernable aromas. You can smell a jellybean all day, and while you might get some strange looks, you will get a hint as to the flavor of the bean. The one that looks like popcorn and the one that tastes like old shoe look exactly alike. It is a real problem.
Chocolates are another type of candy that should be marketed as guaranteed aggravation in a box. At our house, a box of assorted chocolates becomes a box of poked chocolates before the end of the first day. Invariably, someone puts a finger through the middle of each one, which is a technique that ensures you don’t accidentally eat one of those horrible stuffed chocolates. It also ensures a choice for the second person. Do you really want a chocolate so bad that you’ll eat the picked-over, poked variety?
The only thing worse than a picked-over poked chocolate is a chocolate that is secretly stuffed with something soft, gushy and wet. That combination creates a trifecta of bad chocolate stuffing, and it explains the rationale behind the serial chocolate poker. My sister was a repeat offender when we were children.
Fortunately, the situation with chocolates and jellybeans is becoming easier to manage. Now you can go to the candy store and buy just the flavors you like. And the flavor is on the box, so you know which one you’re getting. With chocolates, there is sometimes a map on the box top, which is good as long as someone doesn’t switch them around to fool you. Yes. That sometimes happens for sport, but mostly it is an attempt to hide the good ones for selfish consumption. You see, that map doesn’t eliminate the bad chocolates. It just identifies their locations.
Despite the fact of possible workaround for dealing with the scourge of assorted candies, the best solution remains abstinence. Just say no to assorted candies. Better yet, say no to all candies and get in shape. You can take that money you’ll save and use it for your gleaning stash.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
Some of us are living in a state of denial about a certain law of the universe. I call it Hippo’s Law: ‘When too many priorities are allowed, no priorities actually exist.’ In the context of today’s conversation, I am referring specifically to the problem of handicapped parking permit proliferation, but I’m sure the law applies elsewhere, as well.
Consider these criteria for handicapped permits in Tennessee (paraphrased):
- Paralzyed or as good as paralyzed
- Lost limb, foot or hand or might as well have
- Can’t get about “without great difficulty”
- Confined to a wheelchair
- Can’t walk 200 feet without stopping to rest
- Might have braces, arthritics, spastics, or pulmonary/cardiac ills
- Practically blind even with glasses.
Show of hands…Who disagrees with that list?
[Looks around at empty room before proceeding.]
Me neither! It sounds like a pretty good list to me. If you’ve got all that going wrong, I think you should be allowed to park near the door, and God Bless you! Unfortunately, I’ve seen way too many people who have much less than that going on, yet they somehow manage to obtain a permanent tag.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want the front spot. I want to save it for the people who really need it. I just happen to know several people who are able to stand and walk for hours on end without complaint. And they have these permanent tags. It is an outrage. Sure they have issues. No, I haven’t seen their medical records. But you don’t need to go to medical school to know that a person who can stand and walk for hours on end doesn’t need a special parking tag. In fact, their demonstrated ability to get around “without great difficulty” proves the point.
They have issues. They just don’t have issues like the ones listed. Their maladies are nowhere close to matching the degree of severity required by the rules! But they have been granted a priority for parking by the good state of Tennessee because a doctor says its okay.
So why is that a problem? Let’s go back to Hippo’s Law. If everyone is allowed the special spots no one is really special. And some people, who have chronic and severe problems like those listed, really have a need. When others who don’t meet the criteria are parked there, the footless blind guy has no choice but to park farther away or to skip that establishment altogether due to lack of parking.
We need to crack down on these permits! It’s not like you can make more spots closer to the door, after all. You can paint that wheelchair logo on more spots if you want, but each spot is farther from the door than the one before it. This is a geometry problem that can’t be solved by wishing it away.
So there are only so many good spots to go around, and some people who don’t really have as great a need are hogging them up.
I have a theory about why people get these when they shouldn’t have them.
1. Doctors are basically service providers. The customer has a request and they are there to make customers happy. The customer can go elsewhere for their pills and remedies, so doctors who don’t want to lose business had better not hold too firmly to these rules. In my opinion, this is a conflict of interest.
2. Society doesn’t understand Hippo’s Law. People don’t realize that to award a priority incorrectly is ultimately unfair to those for whom the law was written to protect. The idea that more compassion is better has good roots, but it is ill placed here.
3. Doctors are trying to be caring to patients while failing to objectively evaluate the impact of a bit of their overly padded judgments.
I feel bad for those poor souls who can’t get about easily, who can’t walk 200 feet without stopping to rest, who lost a hand or a foot in the war or wherever. Why must they be pushed to the periphery of our parking lots by such unfairly generous applications of these rules?
What can be done about this horrible problem? I suppose we could all wring our hands over it. For my part, I sort of just want to rant about it. I doubt if anything will change, but knowledge is power, and there you have it.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
