“Don’t worry; it will all work out.” if you hear those words run like hell for the exit. It’s a guarantee that soon, you will be fetlock deep in the oozy brown stuff. I first learned this in the Navy. Winding up in the deep end was so frequent that whenever we heard the words “Don’t worry; it will all work out.” we automatically responded with a term suited to the situation – BOHICA – Bend Over Here It Comes Again.
Thanks to this early education, I was alert whenever I heard the magic words register on my consciousness. My lips would curl into a smile. I would whisper the magic precept of the seven p’s – Prior Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance. Then I would rush to the documentation to fill myself with all the knowledge I could find. True, you’d be farctate – stuffed to the gills – with data. Most of those around you will only know what was in the scanty briefing document. You, on the other hand, will dole out fascinating tidbits they need to know. You’ll be frantically researching what gives on the ground. But your peers will assume that your command of the situation is masterful.

Just remember these things:
1.) Don’t worry. It’ll all work out.” equals big trouble
2.) BOHICA – bend over here it comes again
3.) Prior Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance

Have you got that? Don’t worry; it’ll all work out!


Clancy, the Gray Menace, enjoyed three activities most: a good fight, a good meal, and a nap. The order of these did not matter. If you squeezed three into a day, then that day was notable. A duel with a neighborhood cat satisfied the fight requirement. But being farctate on a roast beef sub ( with hots, please!) was sublime. Follow the gluttonous meal with a nap, and well, it was a great day.

Don’t let it be said that the Menace was without compassion for fellow cats. After subjugation, the subjugated got inducted into the ranks of pals. Several times a week, the regulars showed up for catnip and snacks. I got to play a waiter. “Waiter…another serving of your best filet mignon for my friends; hurry, please.”

Yes, filet mignon. My father’s friend was a butcher. A few times a month, dad would send up deep-frozen filet to feed his son. There was more than I could consume, and Clancy generously assisted. Mere cat food for an afternoon repast was so plebian. We shared the wealth with a lot of overweight gourmand strays.

“Even overweight, cats instinctively know the cardinal rule: when fat, arrange yourself in slim poses.” – John Weitz.

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