Somewhere In Gripes: A Time-Traveling Journey Through A Family History Of Complaints

It’s Wednesday, the First of April, which means that it’s time for a very special edition of The Gripe Report.

I mean, they’re all special, but this one is special-er.

Have a gripe? Send it in!: matthew.reigle@outkick.com

That’s because this one is all about family.

I'm not complaining about them (although, if this column runs long enough, mark my words, we will get there), I'm celebrating them.

My family has a long history and an extensive body of work in the field of complaining.

I was digging through the Reigle family archive (an old Jack Daniel's box my dad has in his garage) when I stumbled across something shocking…

A collection of gripes from relatives long since passed. 

Except for Dave "Purple Haze" Reigle. 

He’s still with us… kind of… he’s just usually stoned.

Anyway, I thought about sending these pieces of history off to the Smithsonian, but then I thought, "Meh, screw those nerds," and I've decided to share here, as a way to see what it was like to live and gripe throughout history.

Now, let us fire up the patent-pending Gripe Machine™ and let our journey through time, space, and bitching begin…

<i>Fred Ott's Sneeze</i>: a delightful romp full of snuff, sneezing, and Fred Ott. (Photo by: Universal History Archive/UIG via Getty images)

Orville Reigle c. 1894 - People Who Walk Past You In Motion Picture Theatres

I had saved up a nickel after weeks of sweeping out iron furnaces to go see one of Thomas Edison’s miraculous motion pictures. I even went so far as skipping meals of stale bread and canned peaches to save a penny here and there.

The projectionist (who I hear is a friend of Edison himself) began the picture, titled Fred Ott’s Sneeze. It’s a delightful romp of a picture in which the titular Ott takes a pinch of snuff and then sneezes.

It’s five seconds of sheer delight, magic, snuff, and sneezing.

But I wouldn’t know about that last bit because just as Ott was rearing back to sneeze — the climax of the picture —some rich knickerbocker with many a nickel and dime to spare stepped in front of me to get to his seat.

As this girthy oaf stepped in front of me, obscuring my view, I heard uproarious laughter from my fellow motion picture theatre patrons.

Fred Ott had sneezed, and I had missed it.

It was going to take weeks before I could scrounge up another nickel, and by then a new picture would be in the theatre.

One without sneezing, surely, as sneeze pictures had fallen out of favor once Edison realized more interesting things like people kissing or an elephant being electrocuted could be put on film.

I just hate that people these days don’t have the patience to wait before stepping in front of others, blocking their view of such on-screen miracles.

Oh well. Surely, in say 132 years, people will have a much greater well of patience…

Or not, who knows?

Temperance Goodreigle c. 1650 - When Your Husband Doesn’t Polish His Hat Buckle

Is it too much to ask of my betrothed to keep up somewhat reasonable appearances and make sure that his hat buckle is shiny?

I did not bother him while we were on a ship from England, for I thought that the sea air was merely hastening the rate at which the buckle’s polish deteriorated.

But now, we have spent three years in the new colonies, and my husband has easily the dullest buckle on our street.

I’m to the point of embarrassment when I see the likes of John Smith or John Smith or the other John Smith with the funny eye walking around town with buckles shiny as the midday sun.

Meanwhile, my husband, John Smith, looks as though his hat was just plucked out of a well.

Which, in truth, it was — he is a clumsy fellow — but it shouldn’t look like that.

There's a higher than zero chance mammoths accidentally trampled a lot of wives, so, if you think about it, it's <i>good </i>they're gone. (Getty Images)

Grrrrrk Reigle c. 10,000 BC - Mammoths Trampling Your Wife

Me hate when mammoth trample wife.

Oh, well. Me get another new one.

Samuel J. Reigle c. 1773 - When You Want Tea But People Dumped All Of It In The Harbor

Look, I’m all onboard with the Independence movement and hate paying taxes — especially those without any form of representation as much as the next patriot — but I also like my morning tea.

I was just minding my own business, preparing to make my morning pot, when some fellow dressed as an Indian knocked on my door.

After offering his assurance that he was not an actual Indian (Whew!) I opened the door. He explained to me that he was part of a grand scheme to show the King what we thought of his taxes.

I assumed he meant a sternly worded letter that would get to London in quick eight months or so, but that didn’t explain this man’s peculiar dress.

He said that he and his conspirators planned to dump all of the tea they could find in the harbor. 

I told him that this was a good waste of tea, which he assured me was the point.

Respectfully, I tried to convince him to take my neighbor's tea so I could drink mine, but he told me he had already done that and that I should just give him the tea, or he’d brand me as a supporter of the King.

I asked if I could at least come dunk a tankard in the harbor after the tea had steeped in the briny waters. He said I couldn’t. I find that quite unreasonable.

As unhappy as I am about the tea, I’m pleased that this is a step toward never paying taxes again for many generations to come in this New World.

"He had the entire ocean, and <i>still </i>steered into an iceberg. Do you understand how wide oceans are?!" (Getty Images)

Edsel Reigle II, Esq. c. 1912 - When Ship Captains Can’t Avoid Striking Icebergs With The Hull Of An Oceanliner

Considering the vastness of the ocean, how does one wind up steering a vessel into an iceberg?

I mean, really?!

Ugh… now my socks are all wet. I think I’m going to go grab something from the buffet (no lines!) and then see if I can steal a dress out of the neighboring stateroom so I can sneak onto a lifeboat more easily.

This is what you get for constantly calling a ship "unsinkable."

At least it'll make an interesting motion picture someday. Especially after they figure out how to add sound.

Sir Count Baron Von Reiglethoven III c. 1750 - Chambermaids Forgetting To Empty Your Chamber Pot

But one occupation is all my chambermaid, Frau Helga, has, and it is in the very title which she holds.

"Chambermaid," therefore, I want my chamber made, and the first item is emptying the chamber pot under my bed. 

Not opening the curtains to let sunlight rush into my quarters, or asking if I had a pleasant slumber.

Empty. The. Chamber. Pot.

It houses horrors of which I’d rather not speak, so I want it removed in a hasty manner and flung onto the roofs of the nearby peasants’ domiciles.

It reminds them that I, Sir Count Baron von Reiglethoven III, am above them in every conceivable way… and also that I’m very handsome and a robust 5-feet-10-inches in height.

Nature’s perfect height, as it were.

I know cleaning the chamber pot is a dirty job, but Frau Helga knew what she was getting into when she went to chambermaid academy.

Dave "Purple Haze" Reigle c. 1977 - Not Being Able To Find Your ‘Stuff’

I hate when I drop the needle on my Yes record and then forget where I put my rolling papers…

…

…oh wait, here they are.

"I understand why the canceled the April 14, 1865 performance of ‘Our American Cousin,’ I just want to see how it ends…" (Photo by Keystone/Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

H. Clarence Reigle c. 1865 - When You Have To Buy Another Ticket To See How ‘Our American Cousin’ Ends

I’m a reasonable man. I can understand why the performance of Our American Cousin on the 14th of April, 1865, at Ford’s Theatre was postponed. 

I imagine it is rather hard to get back into character after the president is assassinated during the show.

But I was quite invested in this three-act farce penned by Tom Taylor, and wanted to know how it would end.

On that fateful evening, the ticket takestress in the box office was inconsolable when I asked if and when the show would recommence. She called me a "heartless monster" and told me to leave and never come back.

I then asked if my ticket would be refunded, even if prorated for the portions of the play I had seen.

She began to sob uncontrollably, an act I took as an implicit, albeit definitive, "No."

But, imagine my frustration when I went to get my complimentary ticket to the next performance and was informed I’d have to pay for it.

"I was here on the night that… you know…" I said. In retrospect, my use of pantomime to convey that I was in the theater on the night of the assassination was perhaps uncouth.

"Yeah, I remember you now," the ticket takestress said. "Everyone was scrambling to help the president or hunt down the assassin, and you were worried about your ticket, you disgusting man!"

"There were dozens of people helping him, and look at how that panned out. We couldn’t all help the president or look for the actor John Wilkes Booth anyway, so what else was I supposed to do?" I asked, rhetorically. "My options were to ask about the refund policy or go home."

"You should’ve gone home," she said, slamming the window in my face.

For shame. I shall wait for the movie adaptation to come out… once those are invented.

…

Appreciate you coming along for this April Fools Day trip through time, and we'll be back to our regularly scheduled, modern-gripe-centric programming next week.

So, be sure to send in those gripes: matthew.reigle@outkick.com