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As I write this, Hurricane Florence is sitting out in the Atlantic Ocean deciding what she wants to do.

She’s still a few days away from landfall, so there is really no telling, although I sit well in the middle of the possible cone. Granted, there are thousands of models that have it going miles north and south of me. Of course, there are also models that have Florence driving into my neighborhood, taking a left, parking in my driveway, walking up my sidewalk and ringing the doorbell.

So I’m nothing if not on alert.

My family has lived on the coast for more than four years, so we definitely look at storms differently than we did prior to moving here. Previously, I followed them as an avid weather watcher. Now, I follow them as an avid insurance keeper-up-to-dater.

We have evacuated twice since we have lived here. The first time doesn’t really count, as we were planning to go out of town that weekend anyways. The second time the governor ordered an evacuation, and we politely complied. In South Carolina, evacuations are not classified as “volunteer” or “mandatory.” They are just “evacuations.” It’s the emergency responders’ way of saying, “Yeah, if y’all could not be here creating additional, unnecessary headaches while we work to solve actual problems, that would be super.”

Last year, a storm came a callin’ and my wife and daughter headed out of town prior to it hitting land. There wasn’t an evacuation in order, but they decided it was a good time for a girls’ weekend, so good on them.

My son and I stayed behind and endured some rain and a bit of wind, and our WiFi did flicker on and off a couple of times, so we don’t exactly qualify for survivor awards.

We are going to be sensible, regardless of what Florence does. (And not just because there are a bunch of storms lining up behind her just for sport.)

But sensibility is key. We did not make a run on the grocery store, as plenty of folks have done. Quick question, folks who have raided the milk and bread aisles: What are you going to do with all of that stuff? Unless the answer is “Impenetrable Bread Fort,” I think you may overbought.

The bottled water aisle has also been ransacked, as my wife and I noticed while at the grocery store earlier today. For what it’s worth, during such weather preparation times, those doing their usual grocery shopping should get a special flag for their carts that reads, “Not panicking. Just weekly shopping.” Also, we should get our own check-out line.

As we were checking out, we were chatting with the manager about the run on essentials. We asked him if they had another water shipment planned. He said, “Nope. We’re just directing people to the beer from now on.” I hope he was not kidding, as that’s awesome.

So now we wait. We will keep an eye on social media and follow the updates from our various officials. Odds are more likely that not that the storm will not be a direct hit, but that option is still certainly in the cards.

Should Florence decide to be a massive beast that wants to come and visit my home personally, we will most likely not be here to greet her. If she goes elsewhere and just sends some side effects our way, we will probably be here and will ride it out as we have in the past. Either way, we know we’ve got a few days to decide what we do. And that gives us plenty of time to get to the store. For beer.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

Fortunately, I can report that I am now better. Much better, in particular compared to last week, when I can tell you I was not, in fact, better.

I started being not better on Monday morning. It was a Monday, so I at first wondered if it was just a Monday being a Monday.

I sat in my chair, assessing the situation. Then my body decided to take charge and let me know what the deal was for the rest of the day when it whispered to me, “I am about to ruin your day.”

It started with shivers down my back. Uncomfortable waves rippled down my back and sides. Then the fluctuations in temperature. One minute, I was freezing cold. The next minute, I felt like I was in a sauna. And then for fun let’s throw in coughing. And these were those super fun nonproductive coughs that are really just barking loudly over and over, and when you stop and try and take a breath your body says, “Uh, what are you doing? We’re coughing for the time being.” And then you go back to coughing.

I came home and made it to my bed. I went to my go-to method of stopping an impending illness: NyQuil time. I do not know if NyQuil has actual redeeming medical value other than knocking you out long enough for most illnesses to have run their course. I hoped this was the case this time: (1) Take NyQuil (2) Go unconscious for extended period of time (3) awake miraculously cured.

Alas, this was no match even for NyQuil. When I awoke a few hours later, I was soaking wet. I’m not sure about your sleep habits, but there is no version of mine in which waking up soaking wet is a good thing.

I put my hand to my forehead, and it felt like a cool, moist salmon. Fever broke, I figured. Good sign, right? Apparently, this was only the sign that I was at the very beginning of the Fever Roller Coaster. About an hour later, as I was simultaneously burning up and freezing. I took my temperature. 100.1. I texted my wife. About 10 minutes later I took it again. 100.7. I texted my wife. Ten more minutes. 101. Text. Ten more. 101.7. Text. She finally responded. “Stop taking your temperature over and over.”

By the time the evening had rolled around, I had taken several fun turns on the Fever Roller Coaster as well as several exciting coughing fits that lasted, by my estimate, 457 hours.

I took my evening dose of NyQuil and went to bed. That lasted for about 10 minutes, as the fever and the cough got together and reminded me that we were not sleeping tonight. We were having fever come and go and coughing non stop.

I decided I would go to the doctor in the morning if I was still running a fever. Fast forward to next morning, and I had about doubled up the train wreck I was the day before. To the doctor. After a series of tests and pokes and prods, I received my official diagnosis: “You’ve got the funk.”

I was given some antibiotics and a cough syrup that thinks NyQuil is simply adorable. I went home and, to be honest, the next day or so is kind of a blur, as I spent most of my time in and out of fever dreams and in a prescription cough syrup Wonderland that pretty much morphed reality and said fever dreams into one big crazy Twilight Zone.

So I’m back to being human, which is a vast improvement. Hopefully, it will be a long time until I am sick like this again. But, when it does happen, I know what to do. I’ll text my wife every 10 minutes with updates.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

I’m not sure if you’re noticed, but it’s hot.

Crazy hot.

Unncessarily hot.

Stupid hot.

Why? Because it’s June and I live in South Carolina.

I have lived most of my 45 years in the South. I spent a year in Michigan as a toddler too young to remember what cold is. I spent a year in Northern Virginia as a seventh grader with no recollection other than snow, because middle schoolers – in particular Southern ones – are impervious to heat, and only form weather memories when snow falls. I can vividly remember all of the snows of my childhood. Hardly remember a moment of heat, save for the time a friend and I decided we’d drive to the pool in the car with the windows rolled up and the AC off in the middle of summer to see how refreshing the water would feel. Fun fact: high schoolers sometimes have questionable judgment.

I began really taking note of the heat once I got out of college. I took a job in Orlando right out of college, and it does its part in making summer miserable along with the rest of its Southern city brethren.

And I began taking note of this because I quickly became hyper aware of how much you can become a hot, sweaty mess if you are wearing a long-sleeve shirt and tie and have the audacity to try and walk from your car to the office in the summer.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love the outdoors, and I don’t avoid being outside just because it’s hot. But there is a line in the sand I now draw when it cranks up to 95 with 8 billion percent humidity.

My son got to experience that line recently when we met up with my dad at his cabin in the woods. We wanted to go up and spend some time visiting, and maybe catch a few critters along the way. I told Parker beforehand that we would get up early and make the hour-and-a-half drive so we could enjoy the land while the heat was not oppressively punishing. I told him he would stay until around lunchtime.

We got out there early and hiked for a bit, finding a few critters here and there. My dad said he had a tree that had fallen across the creek, and needed a second set of hands to help get it moved. Parker set off to do some fishing, while my dad and I took a jon boat upstream to attack the offending tree.

When we arrived at the tree, I moved to the front of the boat, and took a chainsaw to part of the fallen tree. After about three minutes, I had cut the tree, and we were able to then move the remaining part that was blocking the channel.

When I returned to my spot at the back of the boat, I noticed two things: (1) It looked as if I had actually gotten in the creek to do my work, as my clothes were soaking wet and (2) After about three minutes, the metal on the back of a jon boat gets REALLY hot.

When we got the boat back to the cabin, Parker was still enjoying fishing, and had also enjoyed an occasional dip in the creek to cool off. I told him I was going to change clothes, and we would be leaving soon, as it had gotten hot and nasty. He remarked that it felt fine to him, as we standing chest-deep in cool creek water. Yeah, pack up, dude.

Before we know it, the summer will be over, and we will be enjoying our cool fall temps that we all love. In the meantime, I will just keep on keeping on. And perhaps I can figure out a way I can work chest-deep in a creek for the next few months.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

As the old saying goes, “Nothing reveals a man’s character like when the car wash is broken.”

Wait, that’s not an old saying?

Well, it should be.

The other day, my family was out of town, so I was left to my own devices. I do what I normally do when I am left at home alone, which is try to relax on the couch and watch some TV, which is impossible because all I end up doing is going through a list of all of the things I could actually get done. Also, our dog, Maddux the Stoic, usually insists on sitting either right in front of or on top of me, so I usually abandon the idea rather quickly.

After compiling my mental checklist of to-do items, I set off to be productive. Fix the sliding glass door that was apparently manufactured by a company called Infuriatingly Frustrating Door Products? Check. Start laundry? Check. Walk dog just far enough so the heavens can open up and soak us both? Check.

One by one, I finished my tasks. I then went to the last task, which was to take my car to the car wash and give it a nice good cleaning inside and out.

My go-to car wash place is one of those automated places that runs your car through a big box that shoots water and soap and for some reason has a rather cool light show during the wash.

Post-wash, you can use their free vacuums to get the inside all nice and pretty.

As I pulled into the wash, I saw a sign blocking the entrance, saying it was temporarily closed. However, there was a staff member standing there. I rolled down my window. He said to me, “Just down for maintenance for a minute. But you can go ahead and use the vacuums.”

No problem, I thought. I’ll just do it in the reverse I normally do.

I pulled into a spot and began vacuuming my car. Hey, fun fact: You know those signs that are posted at these places that say, “No loud music”? Yeah, they also mean no blaring your talk radio, guy parked next to me.

After I finished up vacuuming, I saw that they had removed the sign, and the wash was back open. I backed out of my spot and pulled up to the payment area prior to proceeding into the wash. And then I looked over my shoulder and saw one car – a car that arrived after me and pulled into the vacuum station – drive out of the facility, foregoing the wash part, and heading on the down the road.

And this is where his character was revealed. He had come there to get a car wash and pay a few bucks for a car wash and a vacuum. The staff there was kind enough to keep the vacuums open while they fixed things. But the implication was certainly there that we would make good on our original intention of giving them real, actual dollars for their services.

That dude? Nope. Free vacuum! Woo-hoo!

Now, there is certainly a possibility that he had every intention of going through the car wash, but he had just gotten a phone call about an emergency at home that he had to tend to. I put that chance at .01 percent.

More than likely, he just felt like he totally won that day because, hey – free vacuum!

And that stinks. Because if it continues and ramps up even more, what is the car wash company going to do eventually? Realize people are just taking advantage of them and just shut it all down.

So, the next time you are presented with such a kindness from a business, do the right thing. Because remember, like the old saying goes…

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

A note from Mike: Here where I live, in Mt. Pleasant, SC, we’ve had a bit of an issue with some infrastructure, as a major bridge has been shut down for repairs. It’s one of the major arteries here in town, and it has made driving, well, a bit of an adventure.

Not sure if you’ve heard, but there has been a little bit of a traffic snafu of late.

My normal seven-minute commute to work on day one of Bridgeageddon took about 40 minutes.

It appears we will be in this quagmire for at least a month. To that end, I ask all of my fellow motorists – in fact, any motorist facing a collective traffic calamity – to remember this one, important thing: We are all experiencing the same thing.

Traffic is bad. It’s going to be bad. It will eventually get better. But for now, we have to live in the moment together, and the best thing we can do is for each of us to accept our little allotted portion of misery, and not try and alleviate your share at the expense of others.

What I’m saying here, folks, is you’re not going to beat this mess. You’re only going to make it worse if you try and outsmart the system. This system cannot be outsmarted. It can only be muddied. So a few thoughts on some Do’s and Don’ts over the next month:

DO: Stay in your lane, unless you have to get over to turn at your destination.

DO NOT: Decide you are in a race, constantly shifting lanes and trying to get ahead, as not only are you really making things worse, you are making everyone around you dislike you, and let’s face it – that’s not good for your karmic energy.

DO: Check traffic maps and other resources before you set out on your destination.

DO NOT: Check traffic maps and other resources while on your route. Also, don’t text and drive. Ever. For one thing, you and I both know what the text says. And sending, “I KNOW, RIGHT? LOL!” is not worth hitting the car in front of you.

DO: Relax. Like I said, we’re all in this together.

DO NOT: Lay on the horn and scream at someone who is doing something such as changing lanes, even if you think they are in violation of the earlier Do Not. Let karma take care of that.

DO: Download a nice podcast to listen to.

DO NOT: Crank up your favorite pump-you-up playlist. Trust me, a healthy dose of good music is good for the soul, but when Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream” comes on and you’re sitting in traffic, it’ll just make you sad.

DO: Go to the bathroom before you leave.

DO NOT: Even think about what other people in cars around you who have to go to the bathroom are going through. It must be awful.

DO: Have your passengers be teenagers who will listen to music, sleep, etc. when they are stuck in the car.

DO NOT: Forget that, if you have teenagers, they were once toddlers, and keep those parents with toddlers in your thoughts, as undoubtedly, there is someone having a very bad ride.

DO: Have air conditioning.

DO NOT: Postpone getting your air conditioning fixed three months ago, because you’ll have plenty of time to get it done before the weather gets warm. And yes, I’m looking at me.

DO: Listen to what the police officers directing traffic tell you, and follow their directions.

DO NOT: Argue with them, disregard them, ignore them. They know better than you about the traffic flow. They’re here to help. Don’t create a Live PD segment in the middle of this mess.

DO: Listen for sirens.

DO NOT: Have your music so loud that you do not hear sirens, thus stopping an emergency vehicle from getting to their destination, which most likely is way more important and urgent than yours.

DO: Be understanding if folks heading to meet you get gummed up with traffic and throw off planned appointments.

DO NOT: Use traffic as an excuse when you know darn well you were just late.

DO: Put your shopping carts up.DO NOT: Ever forget that I will work that message into any column I can.

Happy motoring!

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

My wife and I have always tried to be on the same page in a very proactive manner when it comes to parenting.

Some of these are serious topics, such as disciplining children. Others are not so serious in the grand scheme thing of things, such as how long you will let your son’s hair get, even if he is approaching Cousin It levels.

Fortunately, we had agreed upon the “His hair, his call” prior to our son going roughly two years without a substantial haircut.

I say “substantial” because over the last two years, he has gotten two modest trims, but that was mostly to clean up the unbridled mass that was accumulating on his head.

I have never had long hair. I just never wanted it long. The closest I ever came was in college, when I just went a few months longer than I should without a haircut because I needed to spend my money on more important things, such as bee….textbooks. Textbooks. And other school supplies. Yeah. That’s it.

But I am not one of these dads who demands a Johnny Unitas-style haircut. (Obligatory Simpsons reference: “There’s a haircut you could set your watch to.”)

So his hair grew. And grew. And grew. Eventually, he got to the point where he was on occasion wearing it in a ponytail, which, again, his hair, his call.

Fortunately for him, the hair kinda worked for him. It gave him a bit of a surfer-dude look, and it fit his personality rather well.

But then one day he came home and said, “I want to get my hair cut.”

My wife and I both said, “Um, OK…”

We entered this with some trepidation because during the previous trim-ups, he had some serious buyer’s remorse over even getting is cleaned up, telling us he wished he had never gotten a haircut.

So I sat down with him and had that father-son talk that my dad and I never had to have: “Son, if you do this, it’s all on you, and I don’t want to hear you complain about it after your ponytail is gone.”

For this haircut, my wife and son had to make a special road trip. Our son trusts one person and one person only to cut his hair, Amber. Amber began cutting my wife’s hair years ago, and she still drives back to where we used to live to get her hair done. She cut Parker’s hair a few times, and he has decided that Amber is the only one qualified to engage his locks. And I don’t blame him, as Amber is, without a doubt, awesome.

They headed out on a Friday, gearing up for an early Saturday morning haircut. When the deed was done, my son looked like an entirely different person. And he looked like his head weighed 12 pounds lighter.

When they got back later that day, he was beaming and said he loved his haircut, and that it felt great. I can only imagine what is must feel like to have the equivalent of a Cocker Spaniel removed from the top of your head, so I assume it really feels nice.

I have no idea if he will grow his hair out again, and quite frankly, I maintain that’s his call. I like my hair short, but if he wants it long, knock yourself out. It took him awhile for his hair to get as long as it did, so if ever wants to go back to Ponytail Town, he’s got some work ahead of him. But again, his call. Granted, if he wants to go the other direction and take it a step further, I can always give Amber a picture of Johnny Unitas and tell her to make it happen.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

So if you’re a big movie fan like me, I have some advice: If you are planning on seeing a blockbuster movie, and can’t make it until Sunday of opening weekend, you should take all of your electronic devices, lock them in a safe, and avoid looking at them until after you’ve seen the movie.

I base this on the fact some people are simply terrible and love spoiling a movie twist. Because they are terrible.

The most recent example of this is “Avengers: Infinity War.” My kids and I go to all of the Marvel movies, usually on opening weekend. My wife does not go to these movies with us, because she went to one with us, “Spider-Man: Homecoming,” and fell asleep during it, and a nap at home is much cheaper.

I have gotten adept at avoiding spoilers, as I use the aforementioned safe starting on Thursday.

Alas, my kids’ phones are essentially appendages and cannot be easily removed. As we were driving to the theater, my son made the rookie mistake of looking at his phone. I could tell by his body language something bad had happened.

“It’s spoiled,” he said.

At that point, I went against my first instinct, which was to lecture him about why checking texts or Snapchat or anything else was a bad move, as that was really not going to help things.

Instead, I said, “Well, maybe it’s someone just being a jerk making up stuff. Don’t let it ruin the movie. Also, don’t tell me what the spoiler is just in case.”

We got to the movie and settled into our seats. We ordered our usual: Large popcorn and a large root beer. We get the large because you can get refills. My daughter’s boyfriend was with us, and I told everyone to dig in to the popcorn so we could get a refill. Being the naive young lad he is, he doubted that we would be able to power through a large popcorn before the movie started. Silly boy. Never doubt the popcorn consumption powers of a group of Gibbons.

Fast forward to two-and-a-half hours later, and it turns out the spoiler my son had read was not in fact, correct. In some ways, that’s even worse than actual spoilers. If you’re just serving up straight lies to upset people, you really need to do a personal audit of yourself and find out why that brings you joy. And then you should never do it again.

That said, I do think there is a time limit for how long you have to go before you keep certain details holed up only to be discussed in the safest of places. But, there comes a time when, if you haven’t seen, say, “The Empire Strikes Back,” it’s kind of on you. (Spoiler alert: Yoda is Han Solo’s step-brother.)

For me, I’ll give it a month. I mean, there are enough people who have seen the movie by now that if I really need to talk about it, I can find plenty of folks in my house alone. Also, I can talk freely about it with my wife, who will politely smile and nod as we tell her about the movie, even though she has no idea what we are talking about.

There are several big movies coming up that my family (well, three of the four) will want to see. And we we will once again be faced with the challenge of avoiding spoilers. I am convinced that after the Avengers near-miss, my son will be on high alert prior to them. Hopefully, he will put his phone in my metaphoric safe, and focus on the one thing we should prior to the movie: Powering through that popcorn.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

There are a lot of things people enjoy that I just don’t get.

For example, I don’t understand why new pop music is so popular, despite my daughter’s affinity for it. (I’m more of a The Police guy.)

I also don’t get why new country music is popular, despite my wife’s affinity for it. (I’m more of a George Strait guy.)

And I have no idea of the appeal of new rap, despite my son’s affinity for it. (I’m more of a Run-DMC guy.)

So, what we have learned is that I have diverse music taste, and harumph at new things. But it doesn’t bother me if other people like those things, because, hey, you be you.

I try to live my life in a manner in which I try to do the right thing in life and hopefully have a positive impact on the world. If other folks are doing things that aren’t necessarily my cup of tea, then fine, so long as it doesn’t have negative impact on others.

Which is why I’m having a tough time with folks who back into parking spaces.

It makes no sense to me. It takes way more time than just pulling in normally. And sure, while you may be able to zoom on out of your parking spot when you are ready to leave, the amount of time it takes you to navigate into the spot in the first place is way more than the amount of time it takes you to back out into a wide-open parking lot. I can confirm this is true, because I once timed this with a co-worker. Despite my very scientific findings, she refused to concede the normal way was more efficient.

But no harm, right? After all, how did it actually affect me if she backed in? It didn’t.

But then a couple of instances happened where folks backing into parking spaces DID impact me, which leads me to the conclusion that, if you are going to back into your spot, you’ve got to give in on a few items.

First off, you can’t get mad at me because you passed a spot and I pulled into it. This happened recently when my family and I were heading to dinner. A car was in front of us and cruised on past an open spot. I swung on in and parked the car. As I got out, the driver, his car still in reverse, made a comment to me that somewhat impugned my character. He put the car in drive and zoomed off, backing into a spot a few yards away. I approached his car, and when he got out, I said, “Hey, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize you were backing into that spot.” His response was less than warm.

Second, you can’t hold up the flow of traffic to back into a spot. This happened at the grocery store recently. I was the middle car in a pack of five heading into the lot. There was a stop sign, and I was about five feet short of being able to turn into an open spot that the first two cars had passed. As traffic started to move, I went to turn in. The car in front of me pulled up a few feet, and then put the car in reverse. We were both about equal ways into the spot when she saw me, paused for a second, then waved, put the car in drive and headed on for greener parking lot pastures.

So at least she got that I had claim on that spot. But it really never should have been an issue. Cars behind you? Don’t even consider backing into a spot.

I know this may seem like a petty thing. But it’s the little things in life you can do that make the world better. If we all just try and keep the world moving forward in a positive direction, it will all be good. And at the end of the day, we can kick back, relax, and listen to a really diverse playlist that includes The Police, Run-DMC and George Strait. But none of that new stuff. Harumph.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

My son and I were heading down a dirt road to one of our favorite hiking spots when he asked me a question.

“Dad, why do people shoot signs?”

He was referring to a road sign that was scarred up from gunshot. My answer, “I have no idea.”

I should have answered, “Because Mr. Bud Light man doesn’t care about things.”

Stay with me here.

A short while later, we encountered a post on the side of the road. On top of the post was a tall Bud Light can, with an orange flag sticking out of the top. A sign was nailed to the post. It read:

“Dear Mr. Bud Light man and others who dump their trash here… Please stop trashing our National Forest.” It goes on to point out a nearby recycling center that is a mere three minutes away, and shares was it the penalties for littering in the forest. It concludes by saying, “Thank you for your understanding and please help us protect and preserve this incredible resource.”

While the sign made us chuckle, I’m unfortunately pretty sure Mr. Bud Light man won’t read it, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care. He’s the same guy who shoots a sign. He doesn’t care. He lives his life how he wants to, and he doesn’t give a lick about how it might affect others.

Basically, Mr. Bud Light man is embodiment of “This is why we can’t have nice things.” We have laws because people consistently do things they shouldn’t. A threat of a fine or imprisonment for illegal dumping and littering really has zero impact on me, as I personally would never consider doing such a thing. And it boggles the mind that someone would. But sure enough, it not only has happened, but happens enough we have to actually have laws saying, in essence, “Yeah, if you could not leave your beer cans out in the woods that would be swell.”

And it’s not just laws that this creates. It also ruins really good things in life we all could enjoy, but Mr. Bud Light man likes to ruin them.

Case in point: The awesome L.L. Bean return policy. They used to have a lifetime satisfaction policy. I was the beneficiary of said policy. I have a pair of duck boots I got in the late 80s. About a decade later, one of the soles began to come apart from the shoe. I sent them to L.L. Bean, and they fixed them. I still have those boots to this day. But Mr. Bud Light man decided to take advantage of this policy, and began buying L.L. Bean products from thrift shops and garage sales, returning them to be fixed, and then selling them. They were essentially flipping duck boots, for crying out loud.

And so L.L. Bean said enough. Now, it’s a one-year return policy, and you have to have the receipt. Thanks, Mr. Bud Light man!

It’s unfortunate we live amongst people who really don’t care about anything, or the consequences of their actions, in particular on others. I personally would not want to live that way, as I feel certain it eats away at your very core to be that kind of person. (Fun fact that I guarantee is 100 percent true: Mr. Bud Light man has never returned a grocery cart to a corral in his life.)

But maybe there is some hope. Maybe there are more of us than him. Maybe the person who put up that sign is one of many, and Mr. Bud Light man is the exception. If we all commit to taking care of the things in our life and not just trashing the world (figuratively and literally) we can stem the tide of all of the Mr. Bud Light men. In the meantime, let’s all just hope my duck boots keep on trucking.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.