Free-for-all

It came to me in a dream, and this is one of my best ideas ever.  Since times are financially tight, I would take up a cause du jour, and then “go shopping.”

 

Allow me to explain.  Simply find a reason to do something – anything.

 

As a kid we all heard those excuses in school, such as “my dog ate my homework,” “I was too sick to lift a pencil,” and “my mother’s meth lab blew up.”  That’s bad behavior we learned from attending school.

 

Well, we now have a way to not only behave badly, but also get stuff while doing so.

 

Peruse the news and select a story that is rather mundane except for that odd dog-bites-man twist.  It can be about same-sex marriages, or an unexpected death, but it has to be something that is local and can be imagined nationally.

 

It is imperative that you are able to feign outrage, and it would be good to have the ability to manufacture “facts” about your chose event, out of thin air.

 

Now simply text your friends and associates, and tell them about this selected injustice you’ve opted for.  Using social media is a plus as it will find its way to all the losers who don’t have, or want, jobs.

 

At this point you will want to direct all your 300 closest friends and former cellmates to gather somewhere very public.

 

Have them bring legible signs or cardboard.  Be certain to have someone who can spell waiting with a magic marker, and someone with clever sayings show up, too.

 

Imagine if everyone brought 50-or so buddies, Molotov cocktails, matches, ski masks, and baseball paraphernalia in the form of bats.

 

Soon, the police will arrive as they are pretty curious folks.  A megaphone would be useful to begin the crowd chanting, “No justice, no peace.”  It could be, “No cold ice, no peas,” too.  Either one is pretty catchy.  For future reference, “Hey, hey, ho, ho, [fill-in-the-blank] has got to go,” is always a crown pleaser.

 

In any case, as the throngs grow and noise escalates, keep your fingers crossed for some tear gas to be dispensed by the police.

 

It is at this point you and your comrades should throw your Molotov cocktails, and run in varying directions.

 

This is where that sports equipment comes in handy.  Breaking into businesses to get fifteen pairs of size 7 EEE sneakers, or three magnesium car wheels is the crux of this brilliant plan.

 

Of course entering a smoldering beauty supply to get away with nine bottles of hair gel or a couple of jugs of that blue juice they put combs in, is an opportunity that should not go wasted.

 

I can’t stress enough that it is imperative to plan the “shopping,” well.  Your protest needs to begin near your favorite merchants.  Remember that display cell phones in those wireless stores always make great Christmas gifts, as do 22 pairs of the wrong-size jeans.

 

Sure, other non-progressives might call this behavior “looting.”  I call it “justice for peace.”  A rose by any other word is still a rose.

Thanksgiving Day Festivities

Once again, we are quickly approaching that time of year when we are inundated with an abundance of spare time on our hands because of holidays.

 

We just finished with Labor Day, Armistice Day, and are looking forward to Thanksgiving Day in the immediate days.  Unlike Christmas, this is a secular celebration meaning that people of all religions can get into the celebration mode and fight and argue like us Christians.

 

Thanksgiving Day was established so that we, as both a society and individually, could take time to reflect on our lives and give thanks for all we have.

 

That day, we are expected to gather as a family and grin and smile and nod to one another as we overlook Aunt Edith’s false teeth lying next to the sweet potatoes during the Thanksgiving dinner, or Dad’s ability to belch during the quietest moments of the meal.

 

We are also expected to watch football on television.  For our international readers, that is not soccer.  We are expected to see the Detroit Lions win; they won’t.

 

No, the turkey will be especially dry because Mom wants it to be “safe” so, she leaves it in the oven for an extra hour, or so.

 

Gravy will be lumpy, the green bean salad will be gone first, the sweet potatoes with those little marshmallows will be overly sweet, and the mashed potatoes will be cold.

 

All those pumpkin pies will be store bought, and the coffee will be bitter from sitting so long.  No one drinks coffee on Thanksgiving Day.

 

Rather, we rise in the morning to rattling pans and spoons and join the rest of the family for Bloody Mary's during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.  In fact, that is no longer a parade but has turned into three hours of ads with a few marching bands sprinkled therein.

 

By the time the Santa float arrives, we have switched to beer and are ready for discussions about how poorly our favorite football teams are performing.  We’re still not talking about soccer.

 

Eventually, those discussions become louder until it is time to eat.

 

Dad carves the turkey with everyone oohing and ahhing adding comments about how great everything looks.  At this point, we’re all so hungry we could devour broken glass soaked in used motor oil.  But we are forced to tell the others what we are thankful for.

 

By the way, I’m thankful for not contracting the Ebola virus.

 

It isn’t long before all that preparing, cooking, ironing tablecloths, and polishing flatware has come to an end.  The guys are tired as the tryptophan and booze kicks in.  Those who have a greater tolerance will likely start arguing about something – anything – and still be doing so while the police arrive.

 

Folks eventually leave some of whom will return for Sunday’s meal, a few will not be seen until next year, others will disappear until their bail is paid.

 

In any case, think about what you can give thanks for.  And don’t argue.

I’ve Got You Covered!

In case you just arrived on this planet via spaceship, you likely have heard of Judge Judy.  Judge Judy is a grizzled, but somewhat pleasant, adjudicator of interesting legal cases. 

 

Some of these cases involve folks who have had entertaining traffic mishaps, most of them centering on the lack of auto insurance.

 

Today, I just paid my flood insurance for my home in Virginia.  The bill was nearly high enough to reach the International Space Station but, it is because my home is in a “flood plain.”

 

It is called a flood plain because it is a plain that floods.  Typically, high tides, the occasional nor’easter, and fairly rare hurricane can make things pretty, well, flooded.

 

To grease the skids for the insurance companies, they charge those exorbitant rates to protect themselves from us trying to protect our stuff.

 

I also have a small bungalow in God’s Waiting Room, also known as Florida.

 

This place also is insured against flood with flood insurance, wind with wind insurance, hurricanes with hurricane insurance, fire with fire insurance, and something unique to Florida – sinkhole insurance to protect against your home vanishing into the ground.

 

None of these insurances are cheap and all must be paid annually.  My last bill demanded money plus my first born male child.

 

To get to and fro, I have a car that requires insurance, too.  This insurance is really special inasmuch as I get to select how much insurance I cover plus I get to select my deductible rate.

 

Allow me to explain how this works.

 

After using the same auto insurance carrier for nearly three decades, someone slammed into the back of my car while stopped in the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.  The little tart driving the other car was fumbling for a CD under the passenger seat and blamed me for not simply driving through traffic stopped ahead of me.

 

My insurance company, whose identity will not be revealed – but their name rhymes with “Wallstate,” was delighted to collect nearly $25,000 in premiums from me.  Now, they were hesitant to talk with me about paying me for any damage.

 

As luck has it, tart-girl’s insurance company delivered a suitcase full of twenties to our door, about the same time our insurance agent disconnected his phone.

 

This adventure was eye-opening since I can only imagine trying to collect for my homes which could be damaged by a storm.

 

“We’re sorry, Uncle Paul.  Your hurricane insurance doesn’t cover the wind damage that caused your roof to blow away.  By the way, we found it in Ames, Iowa.”

 

“But what about my wind insurance?” I would query.

 

“This is rain damage I’m talking about,” claims the insurance clown.

 

“How can the rain get in there without the wind?” is my next question.

 

And so, this circular debate is akin to one I would have with Smokey the cat.

 

That, Judge Judy, is why I don’t have insurance.

Gotta Have It

Every few years a new fad arises to tantalize folks of all walks of life.

 

Remember the hula hoop?  That was a fad for nearly everyone except Hawaiians.  How about the Frisbee and whiffle balls?   Also fads.

 

Superballs, slime, Slinky, pogo sticks, Razor scooters, ape-hanger handlebars and banana seats for bicycles, are all examples of fads, too.

 

A fad is a form of behavior that becomes obsessive to a large number of the population, and can be found virtually everywhere.

 

Throwing a Frisbee on the beach and in school quads was unavoidable in the 1960’s.  Some folks were good at passing a flying disc to another person, others not so much.  The good ones developed tossing a Frisbee into a sport of ersatz golf, still being played today.

 

Whiffle balls and bats – once found near every toy counter – were used to aid actual organized Whiffle ball tournaments, likely for frustrated baseball players such as myself.  They are constructed from plastic, with the balls containing large perforations making them less-than-aerodynamic, thereby precluding extended flight.

 

My sister had a hula hoop as a kid, only to see it mysteriously vanish one trash-collection day.  Otherwise, it could be found lying in the yard, unused.

 

Tons of kids my age had old bikes that needed freshening for the age.  Rather than tossing them into the dump, they were retrofitted with tall handlebars and elongated seats.  These accessories made them appear more modern and added a few more years of use for just a couple of dollars.  Another fad.

 

Each child in America had to have a Razor scooter at the turn of the last century.  These aluminum foot-powered devices came with just enough accessories to introduce kids and their parents to their local hospital emergency room personnel.

 

These things were no more dangerous than those steel roller skates that my sister also had.  Her skates needed a wrench called a key to fit them to your saddle shoes.  These skates were endorsed by the Orthopedic Association of North America.  Please include skateboards in this list of potential widow-makers.

 

Let us not forget Beanie Babies.  This was akin to the Enron scam that bankrupted much of America.  BBs were small stuffed animals that appealed to adults as well as children.  They came in various designs, and an entire set was needed to make them worth anything.  To complete those sets, people were spending their trailer rent to acquire that stuffed red crab, only to realize another Baby was just released to create more economic drama.  These Beanie Babies can be found today at yard sales and thrift stores, nationwide.

 

But, the rich are not immune to fads.  A handful of years ago, everyone with a pulse suddenly bought an SUV.  Not sure why, gas companies delightedly raised the price of a gallon of fuel by $1.50 as a way to say, “Thanks!”

 

Today, 11 people do not have SUV’s, and those people are blind and cannot drive.

 

The latest fad is to stay Ebola-free.  Not exactly sure how it is transmitted or treated, the hemorrhagic disease has the population on edge.  Meanwhile, our national leaders are sure no one will get it in America.  Unfortunately, hundreds of Americans are being treated for it, and the president wants to bring additional infected Africans to America to prove he knows what he is doing.

 

This is irresponsible coming from a hapless leader.  Let’s let this fad stay overseas and create a new toy.

Wipe Your Troubles Away

Not appreciating something until it’s gone can best be found in the bathroom when the toilet paper has run out, and no one is home to help you.

 

That being said, I was shopping for TP at a local Wally World when I felt as though I had stepped into the Twilight Zone; Rod Serling was expected to step out from between the paper towel section and the plastic sandwich bags to greet me.

 

The array of paper products with which to wipe yourself into a sanitary state was mind boggling, to be modest.

 

Price was a driving force to get my attention.  The least expensive TP was clear upon close examination.  It seems the paper is single-ply, so thin you can read a newspaper through it.  ‘Single ply’ indicates how quickly your fingers will pierce through the TP while actually using it to take care of business.  The lower number of plies, the more quickly you will wind up with a second mess.

 

That rule of physics is hard and fast science, and can be changed no more than gravity can be altered.  To counteract the flimsy, one-ply TP, you can simply use more sheets.

 

This is the time when I like to think of Sheryl Crow.  In case you missed it, Ms. Crow, a prominent environmentalist, set the limit for her 2007 “Stop Global Warming College Tour,” use of TP to between one and three squares.  Ms. Crow was under the impression that her delicate bowel movements requiring the use of one toilet paper square was necessary were mirrored in mine; she was wrong.  But, I digress.

 

In any case, rather than buying inexpensive TP simply to experience the exercise of cleaning with fragile paper products, you can go to a Wally World bathroom and use their paper goods.  Saving trees can be better directed by receiving less junk mail.  By the way, those mailers for carpet cleaning or rain gutters are about the right thickness.

 

But, if you ever wondered when the name changes from “toilet paper” to “facial tissue,” it is when the price increases by 50¢ per roll.

 

Eliminating the bargain brands, I quickly found the premium ones that became amazingly baffling.

 

It seems as though you can buy “extra soft,” “extra strong,” or “sensitive,” but not extra strong and soft TP that is sensitive.  I needed to make a choice.

 

Believe it or not, you can even buy “chamomile” TP.  I’m not sure if it is chamomile scented or flavored but, I have other products to make tea and deodorize the bathroom.

 

Now comes the hard part.  Toilet paper is unlike anything else that is packaged.  The premium brands are sold on packs of twelve, eighteen, or twenty-four.  The dozen pack was clearly for the Sheryl Crow-types, who use very little.  On the other hand, the 24 pack was for types like me.

 

Let the ciphering begin!  Twelve rolls sold for $7.95.  This meant the price per roll was 66¢.  Eighteen rolls were $10.95, meaning the cost per roll was 60¢.  At this point I simply gave up and assumed the 18-pack was going to be the cheapest, and because the package stated I was getting 500 extra sheets in this pack – it said so. 

 

Just before my hair caught on fire, I thought about Ms. Crow and realized she may not be as worried about the environment as she is about spending time trying to buy toilet paper.

Too Close for Comfort

Should someone say, “Give me five,” you might be tempted to hand over some money and, you would be dubbed ‘terminally un-hip.”

 

That simple phrase means to touch hands to celebrate, greet, or congratulate.  The “five” refers to the number fingers on one’s hand, and is often called a “high five.”

 

This primitive method of shaking hands is usually reserved for people who are perpetually-hip.

 

Somewhere in the 1970’s, some baseball players touched hands, creating a gesture that would only lead to further annoyances.

 

Little kids would high five adults to the giggles of observers who thought that was cute.  High fives ran rampant about offices, bowling alleys, and sports arenas.

 

It wasn’t long before most men forgot how to shake hands, rather opting for a high five.

 

Fast forward to today – some 35 years later – and we have virtually forgotten about high fiving anyone or anything.

 

Those crude slapping gestures have somehow evolved into – drum roll, please – hugging.

 

Yes, in the event you have yet to be hugged by someone, anyone, you’re in for a treat.

 

I’m all for hugging comely, nubile women because I like humans of the female persuasion.  On the other hand, guys, not so much.

 

Still, men will walk right up to you and give you a hug.  Some guys are sneakier than that, though.  Those are the ones who approach with an outstretched hand.  Once contact is made, they use leverage to tug you against their bodies.  Bleewwchh!

 

I’ll wait while you look up “bleewwchh” in the dictionary.

 

Never being a hugger with anyone except my sainted wife, and Smokey’s 19-year old Swedish au pair, such an act puts me in a particularly awkward position with my body pressed against that of another man.

 

I see benefits in hugging members of the opposite sex; I see no benefits to me with other guys.  This is not a homophobic statement anymore than having a woman balk at hugging an offensive woman or smelly man.

 

Whatever happened to all that ‘personal space’ stuff that was the topic of all conversations with women in the 1980’s?

 

Four-feet were the appropriate distance, if I correctly recall.  Any encroachment was reason enough for a female to break out that relatively new invention, pepper spray.

 

I, too, have personal space that shouldn’t be invaded by anyone except my sainted wife and au pair Heidi. Or any comely, nubile ladies.

 

If you see me on the street, you may shake my hand or high five me.  Don’t hug me! 

Oxy-what?

Every so often we come across words that are together, but don’t necessarily go together.  I mean those ever-so-popular words such as “military intelligence,” “adult children,” “bureaucratic efficiencies,” or “jumbo shrimp.”  Those are known as oxymorons.

 

No, no, no.  You’re thinking of that stuff that gets stains out of carpets and laundry – Oxyclean.

 

Oxymorons are compressed paradoxes that are often entertaining and have crept into modern vocabulary to the point they are now commonplace.  Buffalo wings, chicken fingers, boneless ribs, dry wine, and string cheese.  Is it string or is it cheese?

 

Veggie hamburgers are impossibilities.  Hamburger is made from beef; veggies are not.  Which is it?

 

Resident alien is likely one of the best oxymorons.  If you are a resident, you are not an alien.  Amen.

 

And while you’re contemplating these examples of common-folk attempting to sound intelligent, ponder over a glass of dry wine.  I believe that would be dust.

 

A bird dog is not a bird.  A fox terrier is not a fox. An afghan hound cannot knit – usually.

 

One cannot be found missing, nor can they receive death benefits.  How many people are in a small crowd?

 

I’m not certain a product can be “new and improved.”  Pick one.

 

Perhaps someone could tell me what a quorum is for the loners club.

 

Our beloved leader often takes working vacations.  Now that’s perplexing.

 

Rap music.  Need I say more?

 

My head nearly caught fire when I heard of “synthetic natural gas.”  I beg your pardon!

 

Try making sense of civil war, near miss, and airline food.

 

Try as I might, I am still baffled by and how folks can have phone sex.  Phones don’t have genders.  But, I digress.

 

A “tin ear?”  Perhaps on the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz.

 

Try mulling these over for a while, then submit your own for future consideration in another story.  Thanks for reading!  See you next week.