Old & Young Yeller

Hello, my name is Whit and I’m a yeller.


I suppose I’ve always been one, but nothing brings it to the forefront like finding yourself raising your voice way too loud and way too fast at someone way too small for something way too stupid.

I’ve got a bit of the anger in me. Sometimes I get a little down. Hell, I’m only human, tall and handsome as I am.

It’s not like I go about yelling at people unprovoked. I’m not dressed in trash bags and wearing a tinfoil hat. You haven’t stepped around me on the sidewalk while I scream to heaven with my zipper down. That’s not me. Usually.

I’m a pretty laid-back guy by most accounts. I’m also fairly clean and fashion savvy. Besides, everyone knows tinfoil hats are passe.

Still, my fuse is short. I’m talking about the imaginary fuse on the time bomb that is my anger, not the “fuse” you’re thinking of (you know who you are). I’m speaking metaphorically here people.

I’ve lost my cool and found myself looking for it even before the echoes of my rage hit the airwaves. I’m an accidental Imus, minus the racism and terrible, terrible hair.

The thing is, it’s not always a bad thing. I work with some of the stupidest people to ever breathe. I’ve let a few of them have it, and I would like to think that it was for their own good. Sure, they might not like me anymore, but who the fuck cares? If I was able to get even an inkling of thought to go through their little monkey brains, then I’m okay being the bad guy.

Is it my job to police the stupid and let it justify the ill-management of my anger? Of course not. It’s just that I have to smack some sense somewhere, and I figure these people are just going to be donated to science anyway, why not get a few words in while I have the chance. I’m talking bags of rocks here, people. Please, no sympathy for the devils.

I also get rather upset during sporting events, although not nearly as much now that I am a parent. There is something to be said for perspective and priorities.

My wife loves to tell the story of how I “trashed” a hotel room on our first weekend away together. We were in the room watching March Madness and the inevitable outing of Arizona in the first round. I threw something. A phone I believe.

I didn’t break anything. Yes, it was stupid. Yes, I’m embarrassed when she tells the story. And yes, I do feel a bit like Van Halen when I think about it.

That said, I’m not violent. I’m a lover, not a fighter. A tough lover.

That is why yesterday, when I walked into the playroom and found Atticus yelling in frustration at an inanimate object that had failed to do his bidding that I realized I had to stop. Cold turkey. Please note- not Wild Turkey, this doesn’t help the controlling of emotion quite as well and may induce vomiting.

Atticus and I struck a deal right there. No more yelling for either of us. We shook on it.

I plan to hold him to it, and I plan to be held accountable for my actions as well. I don’t want him, or Zane for that matter, growing up with yelling on his mind.

I can’t make any promises for the asshats at work.

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