Common Sense

Cavuto: No more excuses

We are all responsible for ourselves


It's a thyroid thing, that's why I'm fat.

My mom demanded I finish everything on my plate, that's why I got fatter.

My dad was stern, that's why I crave attention.

My teachers were awful, that's why I didn't get great grades.

My coaches were clueless, that's why they never let me play.

For some odd reason, in high school, girls thought I was dorky, that's why I never had any dates.

I argued a lot with my college professors, that's why I didn't do well on their exams.

I argued with their assistants, that's why I didn't do well, period.

I missed a few Visa card payments when I was young because they sent the bills to the wrong address, that's why I got a bad credit rating.

Bill O'Reilly got cable operators to "not" run my primetime show on Fox my first week, that's why I'm not beating him...yet.

My teleprompter operator is awful, that's why it seems like I can't read.

My tech crew here is clueless, that's why my graphics don't match.

The speed limit's deliberately set too low by my house, that's why I keep getting speeding tickets.

My kids had a bad quarter at school, that's because my wife must not have studied enough with them after school.

My daughter likes donuts, and she's hanging it on me.

My sons like sweets, and they're saying it's because of me.

I keep getting fatter, so I hang it on all of them.

I don't do all my chores, because, give me a break, I have an illness.

I wish people wouldn't pity me, just because I have an illness.

I can't win, can I?

Then again, I can't lose, can I?

Not when I can think up an excuse for everything that ails me, and every task that's ever failed me.

I have a built-in excuse.

Just call it the "mess" I inherited.

The gift that keeps giving.

The father who was too tough.

The mom who was too soft.

The teachers who were too clueless.

The unprecedented mess I went through to create the unprecedented mess I am now.

We live in a world, my friends, where it is much easier to point a finger than simply look in the mirror.

Trouble is the image in the mirror stays.

The slightly rotund figure staring back at me stays.

...reminding me, as if I needed it, that I am the sum of my mixed up parts.

I, and I alone.

The ultimate product of what my life has produced.

My mom is gone. My dad is gone.

All those teachers...are gone.

The professors long departed...the coaches long retired...

Just me now. And that damn mirror now.

I guess I should get to work now.

...because I'm running out of time.

And I'm running out of excuses.

And worse, I'm running out of people willing to listen to my excuses.

That's what happens when you run out of excuses.

You run out of friends.