Off to the Pokey

Who says there is no good news? 

While trolling the internet, I noticed that our sophisticated British brethren are every bit as stupid and heartless as our New Jersey brethren on this side of “The Pond.”

In mid-July, East Londoners were holding something they call Lovebox Festival.  Evidently, this extravaganza is well-received and well-attended; this is where it gets good.

An enterprising 5-year old lass decided it was time for her to capitalize on this situation by setting up a lemonade stand along the foot route.

We at EasternShoreFishAndGame.com are protecting her identity because of her tender age, but not the facts.

The thorough police – whom are also known as “bobbys” – from Tower Hamlets, felt they needed to change their moniker to “boobys.” 

To accomplish this task, the British cops felt compelled to crack down on illegal activities within their purview.  In this instance it was the purveying of homemade lemonade.

Yup.

This type of behavior is usually reserved for public American toilets such as New York City, Chicago, and Washington, D.C.  Not wanting to be left out of the action, Tower Hamlet bobbies decided it was time to make the arrest of the century, and the news.

It seems as though this felon-in-training was arrested by the local cops and fined $195.  The charge was “trading without a license.”

While I’m certain there is no other crime in Great Britain, and there are absolutely no scams being operated and directed toward unsuspecting Brits, this collar was the crown jewel toward breaking the back of underground lemonade operations.

I can just imagine the scene back at the bobby station.

High-fives and smiles all around.  Chuckles about how their SWAT team clearly overcame adversity of a kindergartener armed with paper cups and drinking straws.

Normal people would applaud this young lady’s entrepreneurial spirit and drive.  On the other hand, the Tower Hamleters are likely dyed-in-the-wool socialists who typically frown upon citizens who try to make a living for themselves without sucking on the guvment teet.  Their motto?  Perhaps it’s “We’ll teach you a lesson in free enterprise!”

In any case, it’s good to see there are nitwits all around the world who continue to provide fodder for our blog.

Thank you, Tower Hamlet!

American, Please

Because I’m a little long-in-the-tooth, mobility is not what it once was.  In high school, I ran the half-mile in track; it has since been changed to the “880 meter run,” something that was desperately needed because of the metric system.

It seems that the half-mile and 880 meters are one in the same but, to make our north-of-the-border, and south-of-the-border folks feel more welcome, we have slowly adopted the metric system of ruining America.

My sainted wife and I decided that our status as relics deserved a treat, so we opted for a new toilet in the guest powder room.  My sainted wife calls it the powder room because it sounds nicer than bathroom. 

I don’t think it is anywhere nearly as descriptive as it should be, because there’s not an iota of powder – talc or otherwise – to be found therein.  There is, however, a bathtub neatly situated inside.  But, I digress.

It was off to the giant hardware store to shop for powder room accoutrements.

Upon arrival, we were met with a compendium of lavatories suitable for most needs. Oddly enough, all were made of porcelain, and were white in color.

Stop laughing right now.  Back in the 1970’s style dictated kitchen and bath appliances be offered in harvest gold, and avocado green, along with white.  Matching tile and patterned linoleum flooring created a late-century train wreck motif that evoked nausea.

It so happens our house contains both the green and gold bathroom versions!

This shopping spree was to help make one powder room more comfortable by installing a taller, more elongated potty in lieu of the current round gold version.

It’s been a long time since I shopped for toilets; six decades, actually.  So, it was with amazement that I ran across more toilets than I could imagine.  It was time to enlist the aid of a store professional.

Alas, there was none so, we found Chip from the lawn mower department was willing to assist us.  Chip knew just a smidgen less about toilets than Smokey the cat.

He patiently read the information off the boxes to us, as though my sainted wife and I were Serbian refugees without the ability to form Basic English sentences.

He eventually reached the part that explained each flush used 3.8 liters of water.  Then, he went on to try to tell us this particular model was crafted in America.

But it was the 3.8 liter part that had me baffled.  Just how much was 3.8 liters?

So I asked Chip, “Just how much is 3.8 liters?”

Suddenly, Chips eyes glazed-over and began to swirl as if tiny tear eddies formed in his eyes.  Nearly 37 seconds crept by when I began calling him out of his trance.

“Chip!  Chip!  Chip!” with only modest success.

Apparently Chip was not the scholar his employer envisioned him as. 

I began thinking about all those packages bearing product pictures and copious writing crowded with both English and Spanish advertising.  Somewhere on that packaging there could surely be enough free space to include the American equivalent to 3.8 liters.

Surely I was wrong.  And so, I let the scholars among us buy all the toilets they wanted.  I will keep my harvest gold treasure for a while longer.

Over Roger

Over the past few months I have taken time out of my practicing for a roadside sobriety test, to watch more television.

Part of our household’s watching habits include police shows.  There are programs that show cops attempting to stop speeders, negligent drivers cruising about without license plate lights, plus programs that stop people from driving inebriated, and those programs compiled with dash-cam videos in all sorts of post-stop shenanigans.

No matter what show we watch, though, the cops enjoy using cryptic vocal communications such as 10-7, 10-62, and 10-79.

Not being a cop, I have little clue as to what most of those codes mean, and my sainted wife is even more at sea.

Highway Patrol with Chief Dan Matthews

Although I grew up watching Highway Patrol in black and white in the early days of television, I learned something from Chief Dan Matthews, played by Broderick Crawford.

In those police cars, were radios looking as though they came straight out of the Egyptian pyramids.  They were a version of a black Bakelite telephone receiver which required the speaker to gaze off into the sky while talking.

Sentences were in the variety of, “10-17 10-20 Spongecake Highway; 10-59 10-12.”

I learned 10-4 means “Okay”; 10-3 is “Stop transmitting”; 10-7 is “Out of service”; 10-20 represents “Location”; and 10-95 is “Subject in custody.”

Sure, all this seems puzzling to the police novice, but years of practice allowed me to learn these codes, much in the same vein as one would learn French.

My sainted wife, however, is too impatient to use a learning curve to make watching these police programs more informational and enjoyable.

Our conversation throughout is usually, “What did he say?” or, “Is he going for doughnuts?”

Even more confusing is the next level, the Eleven Code.  Ten Codes are special; Eleven Codes are even more special.  I’m not even going to breach the “Code Signals.”  No kidding.

In full disclosure, these codes have been in use since the police radio systems began use in the 1920’s.  This was an effort to abbreviate yakking on the radio, and make messages more concise, while hopefully eliminating confusion.

While this tack may be helpful to police, fire, and EMS personnel, it is generally baffling to civilians seeking emergency news via radio scanners and watching television shows incorporating them in their storylines.

But here’s the rub.  These codes, although used by police departments nation-wide, are not standardized.

Very often the codes used by local police agencies are different from those used by the state police, EMS, and even the local sheriff.

So, in theory, all this code business is better than dry socks on a wet day.  Still, it is not standardized which could possibly lead to terrible miscommunication in critical and dire situations.

10-7.

Random Thoughts V

Time has arrived for more astute observations from yours truly.  Indeed, the vodka was flowing freely as were the ever-popular random thoughts.  This is the fifth iteration, indicated by the Roman numeral “V”, which is representative for 5.  Think of the Superbowl numbering.

• Why are there so few Episcopalian suicide bombers?
• Where is Colin Kaepernick working these days?  Want fries with that burger?
• Corvettes shouldn’t be that expensive.  They’ve been made since 1953, after all.
• I wish toilet paper was stronger.
• What makes all the stuff in the back of the fridge turn blue?
• Does the deaf guy select the background music for Walmart?
• I really hate mimes.
• If dolphins are so smart, why can’t they invent scissors to cut themselves out of fishing nets?
• There are so many stupid people in the world.
• The word “racist” now means “You disagree with me.”
• They put a computer and 1000 songs inside my cell phone; how about inventing a watch battery that lasts more than a year?
• Isn’t St. Valentine’s Day a religious holiday?  How about that separation of church and state?
• Let’s not forget about Christmas.
• College grads are unable to find jobs.  How’s that Master’s degree in 17^th Century English Poets working out for you?
• It would appear as though Maxine Waters is off her meds again.
• My wife just got ‘carded’ at the wine store; she’s not in high school, either.
• I nearly won the $400,000,000 Powerball!  I just missed by six numbers.
• The garage wanted to “rotate tires” on my truck.  I told them they rotate themselves when I drive.  Thanks anyway.
• Most politicians had better be sprucing up their résumés.  There’s another election right around the corner.
• Why isn’t Hillary Clinton in a federal prison?
• The mainstream media never heard of Donna Brazil.
• The mainstream media is like an LP record skip with the words “Russian collusion.”
• Didn’t Eric Holder illegally send assault weapons to Mexican drug lords and gangs?  But that’s not collusion.
• Winter is too cold.
• Street thugs are cowards for using guns.  How about a good fist fight to settle a score?
• Nothing says ‘I want this job’ like a giant spider tattoo climbing out of your shirt collar.
• Please note:  Nose rings and eyebrow studs are just a bonus.
• You want $15 and hour for screwing up my order at some fast food joint?
• I’d spit in YOUR food for only $4 and hour.
• Is Saab still in business?
• Shhh!  If you listen, you can hear the death knell for Sears and Kmart.  RIP.
• Summer is too hot.
• Are there enough letters In LGBTQ?  And what does the “Q” stand for?  I thought that word was offensive.
• Do they make bandage strips for black people?
• I used to hate Mondays when I was working.  And I used to love Fridays.
• Now, everyday is the same.  No stress.
• Gas is cheap everywhere in America except for the Eastern Shore.  Why?
• Are figs on the ‘endangered species’ list?  Why are they so expensive?
• Fox News Channel is on the road to self-destruction.  They changed the best of their lineup to likely commit suicide.
• God bless President Donald Trump!

Thanks for visiting and reading.  Come back next week for more good stuff.  And just for the summer, all our stories are FREE!

Waste of Time

When businesses promise things they really can’t deliver, they call it “overselling.”

Overselling is not something to take lightly.  For instance, driverless cars are being promised but, they are no closer to being reality than flying gas ranges.  Still, we are told they are just around the corner.

I think it would be great if I could visit my local watering hole for some Olympic-class drinking.  Then, I could climb into my self-driving Yugo for a safe trip home.  Along the way, a state trooper might stop me to learn why I was seated in the passenger portion, rather than the driver’s area, where the steering wheel and other driving necessities are located.

All this has the makings of a sitcom.  Yet, it is overselling those miraculous vehicles which may, or may not, be available upon my demise.

Since I loved it since I was a little kid, it was with interest that I read about the National Aeronautics Space Administration’s big announcement of an upcoming rocket launch.

In early spring, NASA plastered the news with stories about a rocket experiment based upon something they dubbed Terrier-Improved Malemute Mission.

Not only does it contain lots of big words, they are also generally undefined and sufficiently vague.

This mission was promised to launch a rocket into the sky then, after 3 to 5 minutes, some soda can-sized canisters would be deployed to explode and dazzle people from New York State to North Carolina.  You see, these canisters contained various chemicals that would turn vivid colors and amaze the less-educated among us.  The more astute would be studying cloud drift and effects of the wind on these brilliant vapors.

This whole exercise began in some weeks ago, with a series of errors postponing this scientific exercise.

Excuses such as too many clouds, too much rain, not enough clouds, some crabbing boat in the launch zone, a sailboat convoy passing through the Eastern Shore, Father’s Day celebration, a Delmarva Shorebird’s loss, the dog ate the launch codes, Uber was running late, and my car wouldn’t start, were just a few reasons for the delays.

Finally, today, June 29^th, that Terrier-Improved Malemute Mission was scheduled to launch.

My sainted wife, Smokey, and I, were the only stirring creatures awake for the 4:25 AM launch.  That’s right, 4:25 in the morning.  This is the 14^th try, and I was prepared for each launch.

Bleacher-style seating on my deck provided a viewing platform second-to-none.  All three of us took our places in anticipation of this spectacular, once-in-a-lifetime showing presented by the nation’s premier rocket launching agency.  I suppose it’s the only rocket launching agency.  But I digress.

A portable marine radio helped listen to the communications over the horizon with a United States Coast Guard representative barking out orders and times.

This is where it is good to point out I live six miles form NASA’s Wallops Island launch facility.  The only thing blocking my view is a stand of gnarly old trees.  Otherwise, my view would be prefect.

The Coast Guard voice crackled over the radio, “T-Minus 30 seconds.”

I squirmed in my seat in anticipation of a breathtaking vision.  Then, “T-

Minus 10, 9, 8…”

And so it went until we saw a flash across the near pitch-black sky, and then heard the delayed sound of the engines firing.  Smokey stared at the cherry-red ball, and even my sainted wife took notice.

We patiently waited for the prescribed three minutes, then five, six, and seven. Eight minutes passed and we realized it was too dark to see anything.  The Coast Guard ceased broadcasting, a neighborhood dog began barking, and Smokey became bored.

It was at this time I realized we were amidst one of those overselling moments.

Morning website reports posted photos of the colorful dots of clods in the sky; we saw nothing.  If I was unable to see this spectacular, I’ll wager New Yorkers and North Carolinians were equally handicapped.

I now hate NASA.

Buying the Farm

Let’s begin today’s story with a quiz.

Q:  What do Willie Nelson, John Mellencamp, Neil Young, and Dave Matthews, have in common?

A:  They all tried to rally America against Donald Trump during the 2016 election.

Yes, they all fought hard and said some nasty things about our Commander-in-Chief.  Why?

Because Mr. Trump said he wanted to repeal the ever punitive “Estate Tax.”

In case you don’t know what the Estate Tax is, it is otherwise known as the “death tax,” which is imposed by the greedy among us on people who die.

Indeed, we all will die, and this is just another easy way to make money.  Not unlike taking a large insurance policy out on someone, then killing them for it, the estate tax is something that benefits some of us while punishing the rest.

How can we, as Americans, lose if the dead must pay-up for the right to die?

Let’s examine this simple question.

Willie Nelson, John Mellencamp, Neil Young, and Dave Matthews, are also performing at this year’s annual Farm Aid concert.  Yep, Farm Aid.

Farm Aid is one of those inane feel-good efforts used by The Left to make sensible Americans feel stupid.  Allow me to explain.

In 1985, this benefit for the egos of Willie and John began to counteract the perpetually greedy banks from “stealing” farms and their equipment from multi-generational farmers.

You see, some farms are pretty large and require updated, reliable machinery to till, plant, spray, harvest, shuck, dig, sort, and perform a multitude of other necessary tasks, to keep their homesteads operational and efficient.

Unfortunately, many of these farming families often find themselves in financial straights, with buying some of these tractors and harvesters on credit, with the farm itself as collateral.

The problems arise when the farmer dies before the loan is paid off in-full.

The banks then foreclose on the farm because the family must sell it to pay for the loan.  Or, they must allow their new equipment to be repossessed, for lack of payment.  Where did the money go?

Remember that estate tax?  Democrats have been killing hard-working Americans for years with the ‘death-by-a-thousand-cuts’ method.

Tax the land, tax the machinery, tax the fuel, tax tires twice, and now, tax the inevitable – death.

It aides Willie Nelson, John Mellencamp, Neil Young, and Dave Matthews, to sanctimoniously appear to help these down-trodden farmers who suffer from one major loss of life, then their homes, then their livelihoods, and eventually their dignity.

This is all for money to take from the hard working farmers, to redistribute it to the lazy among us.  And now the Farm Aid egoists want you to feel bad about this situation.

“Keep the family farms in the family,” could be the motto of these simple-minded musicians.  It must be the fault of the banks.  Wrong.

It is the fault of the greedy Democrats who need more of your money to keep the sloths languid.  If Willie Nelson, John Mellencamp, Neil Young, and Dave Matthews, really want to help, they would personally petition their Democratic representatives to repeal that over-burdensome tax.

Incidentally, Donald Trump expressed an interest in repealing the Estate Tax, much to the chagrin of his Democratic opponents.  I’m just saying.

Ribbit. Ribbit.

People uninitiated about The Eastern Shore all make the same common mistake: they don’t think about our mosquitoes.

They come alone, in caravans, with kids and pets, and they schlep swim suits, beach toys, chairs, and sunscreen, but they rarely bring along bug repellent.

It must be understood that we live on a marsh that borders on a bay and an ocean.  It’s the marsh that gives us fits.

Stagnant water creates an ideal site for mosquitoes to lay their eggs, only to later become tools for exsanguination.  Look it up; I’ll wait for you.

Faced with possibly developing all sorts of nasty diseases, tourists should take extra precautions with not only their sun intake, but also their blood-born health.

And with a combination of our uninformed youth, and modern times, rediscovering methods of yore, we should know there are several “natural” methods available to aid in the eradication of those little pests.

Yarrow, a yellow flowered plant, is said to be more powerful than DEET in repelling mosquitoes.  Armed with that information I bought three plants and placed them next to our front door.  Two days later, I caught a swarm of mosquitoes carrying off one of them.

Bats, the flying mammals, are alleged to be able to consume 1,000 mosquitoes per hour, per bat.  But in all the decades I have been visiting and living on The Shore, I have never seen a bat other than in the hands of a Delmarva Shorebird.

Let us not overlook the humble green tree frog, though.  Only a few inches long, the diminutive green tree frog is a relative of the giant tree frog.  Go figure!

One morning last summer brought the realization that a tree frog was residing in

a garden bed adjacent to our front door.  With frigid winter weather approaching, I bid adieu to Señor Sapo.  FYI, that is Spanish for Mr. Frog.  You’re welcome.

In any case, warmer spring temps this year revived Señor Sapo who, when I was exiting to retrieve the morning newspaper, was neatly tucked inside our storm door.  He appeared to still be in a state of semi-hibernation.

To that end, I am trying to keep him alive so that he may eat copious amounts of mosquitoes au natural.  We carefully open the door to prevent a smushing mishap, and close it the same way.  We make guests use the back door so as to avoid any amphibian catastrophe, too.

In any case, I’ve got my eye on Señor Sapo, along with his weight.  I’m using this as a barometer to measure Señor Sapo’s eating habits.  If things go as I expect them to, he will soon weigh a modest seven pounds.

Until then, Smokey the Cat is forced to patiently wait by the door and listen to Señor Sapo croak, lest he become a toy for Smokey.

By the way, if you’re thinking to yourself how I know Señor Sapo is not a Señorita Sapo, it is pretty simple.  Male frogs make noise, while females don’t produce much sound at all.  That’s exactly the opposite of humans.  I’m just saying…