Back to School

Some decades ago I lost contact with a cousin who was the luckiest person alive.  He was about 30-years old at the time, married, with no job, and still going to school.

He was able to do this because he married a lovely woman who catered to his ego and worked full-time in order for him to attend school full-time.

It’s not as if he was working on a doctorate, rather he was allergic to work of any kind, and scholastics was a way to fulfill his goal – loaf.  And he was good at it.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get out of the educational system because, unlike my cousin, I wasn’t very good at it.

Learning was one of those things in life that put my nerves on edge.  Three different courses demanded simultaneous research papers, in addition to regular homework and classes.  Thrown in for good measure was my effort to pay for my own education without the help of guvment or a student loan or my parents; that meant part-time jobs, too.

To say my schedule was a bit crowded would be an understatement.  Besides, I didn’t have a sugar mama on which to rely for money, or even dream taxpayers would foot the bill for my schooling.  But I digress.

I thought of this lazy kin when I was mixing dangerous chemicals today.

My ornamental garden beds were flush with early spring weeds, and those weeds needed killing.  I broke out last year’s pump sprayer and a bottle of defoliant concentrate to assist with the weed murders.

Weed assassination device

A defoliant is one of those chemicals that the People’s Republic of California deemed a carcinogen.  For all you Canadians, carcinogens are things that cause cancer.  I’m not sure if the weeds die from cancer or some other malady.  In any case, they had to be eliminated.

Because of the six-month gap since my last use of this chemical and subsequent lack of mixing recall, I turned to the instructions attached to the bottle, since this concentrate required mixing with the appropriate amount of water.

Therein were twelve plastic-coated pages – in both English and Spanish – detailing what sort of weeds and grasses this defoliant would defoliate, and pronto.

On page eight, in itsy-bitsy lettering were the mixing instructions.  Sure, our well water is probably more toxic than most commercial defoliants; nonetheless, I spent $18 on this bottle.

To be fair, enclosed with the bottle of defoliant was a plastic cap that doubled as a measuring cup, likely to preclude your average amateur gardener from using the household measuring cups to meter out poison.  That’s my best guess, anyway.

The measuring paragraphs began with third grade basics.

One tablespoon = three teaspoons

Two tablespoons = one ounce

Five tablespoons + one teaspoon = 1/3 cup

Figuring there was a math quiz at the end of this novelette, I paid especially close attention.

When I reached the 16 tablespoons = one cup portion, I decided to skip over to the next paragraph.

This is where the important information had lain.  In order to make one gallon of weed killing juice, I needed to mix two ounces of poison with a gallon of water.

A quick look back at the previous paragraph indicated I needed to do math.  If two tablespoons = one ounce, four tablespoons = two ounces.

That wasn’t so very hard.  What was hard was comprehending how the company that manufactured this chemical didn’t place a line inside the included measuring cup; the line would indicate the appropriate measurement for the defoliant concentrate.

Perhaps it’s not the chemical that is dangerous.  Maybe it’s the poor math skills of the end-users that make it dangerous.

Maybe I should have called my lucky cousin for the math answer.

I’m just saying.

No, Really

As I wind my way through life, I like to compare my new ventures with old ones already experienced.  And over time I realize just how much times have changed, and maybe not for the better.  Here are two examples.

I recall biking through the sidewalks of town when I was only five-years old.  I didn’t travel far because my legs were small and I had nowhere to actually go.  Sure, a quick trip to the local corner store for an ice cream sandwich or six-ounce bottle of soda was the norm, but those were the big adventures as a young’un.

In due course I progressed and my bike got bigger as I got taller, and the trips got longer.  It wasn’t long before my mini jaunts evolved into twelve mile runs to work.

My bike days were something I desperately wanted to end because now my buddies were driving cars, not riding bikes.  But that was for the reason that they came from more affluent families that could afford to buy their kids cars, and pay for high-priced insurance.

Because of my learned work ethic and money saving gene, I accumulated enough cash to purchase a very used car that was more trouble than biking anywhere.  Unfortunately, my dates weren’t interested in going out on a Schwinn.  Alas.

Being back in the social swing of things, my buddies were learning to play card games. Games such as pinochle, rummy, blackjack, and poker, were popular back then, and the “guys” were not only learning these games, they often decided to invent their own rules.  Of course, those new rules were always biased toward the rule inventors, don’t you know.

Once again, though, because of all the new, creative card game rules – rules that would make Hoyle turn over in his grave – we decided there were other more, civil and honest ways to enjoy Friday and Saturday and holiday evenings.

Thinking back on those biking days, I never thought about using any type of steroid to better enable myself to ride further, faster.  I relied on old fashioned developled muscles to help propel me to my next two-wheeled trip.

So it was with interest that in 2012, American bicyclist Lance Armstrong was stripped of his winnings in various cycling events including the Tour de France.  Armstrong wasn’t the only bike riding guy to be accused of doping – using illegal drugs to obtain an advantage over their competitors – but he was the most infamous, and that ain’t good.

Cyclists and a sundry of other athletes in most competitive events seek an edge to win-at-all-costs.  This is not fair to fellow athletes who do not use illegal and/or questionable products that enhance the athletes’ bodies to outperform non-cheaters.  Faster and further and stronger are the results of doping, which is why those products are illegal in competitive sports.

That being said, I also never thought about using steroids when playing cards with the boys.

This is where I’m stopping writing; I’ll wait for you to catch up in case you need to go back and re-read this essay.

Some fellow named Geir Helgemo, a 49-year old card player from Norway, is the world’s top-ranked bridge player who was just suspended by the World Bridge Federation.  It seems as though, Helgemo was suspended after he tested positive for two banned substances.  No, really.

Whoa!

Now, not being a medical professional – and hardly being able to pronounce some of the medications I’m prescribed – I can’t think of any benefit using performance enhancing drugs Helgemo would receive.  Sure, I realize bridge is a very demanding game, but not quite on the level of slalom skiing or long distance running or Olympic beer drinking.  But I digress.

Once again, I wouldn’t have thought I might have won a few more poker hands with the guys if I used some performance enhancing substances.

But if you readers have a clue, please let me know.  I’m really, really curious.  I’ll pass that information onto Lance and Geir for you.  Thanks.

I’m Dying Over Here

Over the years, I have traveled countless miles by both land and air.  More than 84,000-miles per year were not out of the question.

One of those places I visited was California.  California is a rather large state, and for business reasons, I stayed in San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco.

On both the big screen and television, these cities are portrayed as idyllic, and for the most part, they are.

The exception to that rule is two-fold; the politicians are largely under the influence of psychotropic drugs, and they love to take other people’s money.

I understand that politicians are born with that theft gene in their DNA, so I have plenty of compassion when they wink and tell the world the average resident (anywhere) needs to pay more in taxes.

Of course, most working people know that that is not true.  The Average Joe and Joette pay lots in taxes for the benefit of all of society.  This money includes school funding, police and fire services, and transportation needs.

But it also includes tax dollars for free phones, food, housing, education, and parkland, all of which are not necessarily used by the working class and elderly.  Still, they pay for all those amenities and say nothing about this strong arm crime.

My sainted wife and I decided we deserved a magical appliance in the form of a KitchenAid mixer, upon our retirement.

For decades we either had not enough money for one, or not enough space.  KitchenAid mixers are a high-quality appliance that uses attachments to augment its versatility.  In other words, it’s a terrific gift that provides a regular excuse to buy a new attachment.

After some years, we’ve accumulated a wide variety of those attachments to include a pasta maker, spiralizer, grinder, and shredder, all of which work well, thereby encouraging future purchases.

And because we have a copious amount of citrus fruits, hand reaming is virtually impossible.

Yes, we own one of those little plastic deals with an attached glass jar to collect your fresh-squeezed lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruit, sans seeds.

We made an executive decision to purchase the next logical mixer attachment, a citrus juicer.

A ray of sunshine - everywhere except California

Once home in our modest kitchen I opened the box for its initial washing.  It was at this point that I discovered something terribly alarming; we were either going to die an imminent death, or we weren’t.  I wasn’t quite sure, though.

The box sported a label that had writing in three languages, two of which were foreign – ha, ha – to me.

This stern warning appears as follows: CALIFORNIA RESIDENTS ONLY – WARNING: Cancer and Reproductive Harm – www.P65Warnings.ca.gov

Wasn’t I right about it being pretty stern?

But this is where the waters become cloudy.  According to this legal, written by and overpaid attorney, warning, this applies to California, only.  Or does it?

It appears as though cancer and reproductive harm is germane and limited to California.

All this begs the question: how do California residents juice their citrus fruit?

Maybe all this nannyism – a close cousin to buttinskism – is just another way for lawyers to make a quick buck by writing goofy warnings, thereby adding unwanted costs to the products to which they are attached.

Here’s my personal solution to this serious dilemma.  I merely turned the box over to where I couldn’t see the dire warning and avoided a deadly crisis for me and my family.

Please feel free to use this handy tip yourself.

On the Road

My sainted wife and I were taking a trip down memory lane when she began waxing nostalgic about trips she, and her family, took when she was a child.

Those words sounded very familiar to me, although I had never heard them from her lips before.

I closed my eyes and was taken back to a place that seemed as though we both inhabited, albeit at different times.  Then she screamed.

“Open your eyes!!!  You’re driving!!!”

Indeed I was.  But her story brought back memories of my childhood adventures with my own family, some of which I’d like to share.

She confided that her family drove a four-door black sedan, which acted much like an oven in the sweltering heat of Texas.

Her family was composed of a gaggle of sisters and a lonely, tormented brother, as well as a Mother and step-father.

Vacations for her, as well as my clan, were not as regular as one would think.  We rested and played when money was available.  There were no times that cash was actually flush, so our recreational life was sporadic, at best.

She recounted as to how they were piled into the road oven, four-deep, and given instructions to BE QUIET.

Just as trips in Upstate New York, Texas jaunts appear to be equally miserable.

My Dad was a hard working family man who didn’t say much; my Mom did most of the talking.  She provided “guidance” for my sister and I to avoid getting yelled at, and/or a thorough beating for not following orders.  Those orders consisted of BE QUIET, too.

My sainted wife recounted a trip – I’m sure there were many – when her Mother packed sandwiches for the family, for the trip.

As an aside, there was no such thing as fast food back then.  In fact, fast food was any critter that could flee like the wind – rabbits, deer, and game birds.  Mc Donald’s, Burger King, Hardee’s, and Wendy’s, had yet to be created.

Bathroom breaks were, unfortunately, available at service stations.  I say “unfortunately” because Dad’s cars got pretty good mileage resulting in four-hour treks betwixt toilets.

Contains bathrooms unused by my family

The gist of this adventure is that Mom’s sandwiches were peanut butter and jelly.  The unlucky part is that we weren’t allowed to have drinks with us, on the road; neither was my better-half’s family.

Such an important detail is often left out of the story.  Remember those great distances between toilets?  Drinking to wash peanut butter down your throat translated into “I’ve got to pee!  I’ve got to pee!”

There was no sympathy ricocheting about the car for anyone born with a bladder the size of a garbanzo bean, much like me.  But I digress.

As the old adage goes, “It’s not the destination; it’s the journey that make memories.”

I found it fascinating that my better half recalled those times similar to mine, and actually spoke fondly of them.

And all this time I thought my family had put the word “fun” in dysfunctional.  Evidently we didn’t own the market, which is refreshing.

Happy to Leave

Here’s some good news: If you are not a Catholic – Roman, Coptic, Eastern Orthodox, Oriental Orthodox, Assyrian, or otherwise, you may stop reading now, and go clean your bathroom.

I have a really personal bone to pick with the Catholic Church, and it’s about time to tell the truth.

My formative years were spent in a blue collar town, attending a parochial elementary school.  That school was instrumental in ensuring our proper indoctrination into the faith by teaching daily catechism and Latin, so that we could pray and understand the ritual Mass.

We also attended church services on holy days of obligation, and the Ten Commandments were differentiated from the Ten Suggestions followed in other religions.  School time was all about treating one-another with kindness and respect – just as we would treat Jesus if he was in our presence.

This nine-year regimen ended with my attendance in a public high school; the differences between a parochial and public school were dramatic.  Standards were clearly apparent when it came to in-class, and home, work.  The ‘new’ subjects in high school had already been covered in sixth grade.  Excelling was fairly easy with no real challenges ahead.

But those religious teachings and church attendance habits remained throughout much of my adult life.

I continued to be present at church for every holy day, and the prescribed Sundays.

It was years later that I met my sainted girlfriend who would eventually become my sainted wife.  We set a date for our wedding, and the process began.  A reception hall was reserved, caterer hired, music obtained, and invitations engraved.

I called my thirteen-year parish pastor to attempt to obtain the church for our religious wedding.  It was at this point the pastor declined to talk to me because I needed to go to six-months of marriage counseling before the wedding.  I was unaware of such a thing.

We only had four-months before this special day was set, but this holy man promptly informed me that there was no room for discussion; the rules were carved into stone, and the onus was on me to comply.  Amen.

If I did not attend the counseling, and subsequently marry in the Catholic Church, I was going to be excommunicated.

In the event you are not Catholic, and don’t know what excommunication is, please allow me to explain.

Excommunication is the process of officially removing someone from receiving the sacraments of the Church.  In layman’s terms, I can no longer go to Mass, receive communion, and cannot go to Heaven because I can’t get the sacrament of extreme unction.

No appeal would be considered as the rules were the rules.  Nuff said.

That was a long way to get to my real gripe which officially begins here.

Although I still pray and actually attained ordination of my own in a different religion. Pope Francis, the infallible leader of the Roman Catholic Church, who many believe is a Communist plant, recently made a major announcement about severely declining attendance numbers.

It seems as though many, many Catholics are tired of Comrade Pope Francis’ ultra liberal directives that many feel are antithetical to traditional teachings in the catechism.

To better cope with this attendance dilemma, which goes hand-in-hand with cash revenue, Pope Francis is considering allowing older married men to become priests to serve and minister in remote areas of the globe.

Senator Kennedy's poor parking skills killed a woman, too

This news is distressing because it involves major policy alterations, much as the divorce and remarriage of the late Senator Edward Kennedy.  It also flies counter to Sitting New York Catholic Governor Mario Cuomo, who just introduced legislation to allow the murder of babies – up to the time they are exiting a woman’s womb.

It hurts me to see flagrant violators of Catholic policies and tenets be applauded, while my situation is stalled in limbo.

But all this reminds me of a Groucho Marx quote: “I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member.”

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

We’re going to begin today’s brilliant story with an ever-popular quiz.

Question:  What do Ralph Northam, Mark Herring, Jimmy Kimmel, Joy Behar, Ted Danson, Jimmy Fallon, and Rachel Dolezal all have in common?

Answer:  All are white Democrats and have published proof of appearing in offensive blackface.

Answer: Yes, there are two answers to this question.  This second answer is that Jimmy Kimmel and Joy Behar are immune from any and all backlash for their lack of sensitivity.

Answer:  Uh, oh.  There are actually three answers.  Rachel Dolezal not only appeared in blackface and overly permed hair, she also ran and was elected to position of President of the Spokane, Washington chapter of the NAACP.  By the way, she changed her name to Nkechi Amare Diallo, for some unknown reason.  Perhaps she is a racist trying to make her name seem more black.

Don’t you wish I was your high school history teacher?  Three correct answers would have guaranteed you received a passing grade.  But I digress.

In case you just crawled out of a cave, Virginia Governor Ralph Northam and Virginia State Attorney General Mark Herring, have been identified as being “sorry” for mocking black people by wearing blackface makeup during parties, skits, or Halloween celebrations.

For years now, Jimmy Kimmel and Joy Behar, both television personalities, have been questioning President Donald Trump’s ability to tell the truth, and his alleged racism against blacks.

So it was with interest that I discovered both of these civil rights leaders were also caught mocking blacks by dressing in blackface, with Kimmel going further to even disrespectfully imitate a basketball player by using street language to incur laughs.

Then we come to Virginia Lieutenant Governor Justin Fairfax, who was just accused of sexual misconduct with a woman victim.

Most, if not all of these civil rights fighters are currently in a battle for their jobs.  Unfortunately, these same people have been relentlessly dogging our duly elected president.

Great civil rights defender, Jimmy Kimmel

Just a few months ago, President Trump nominated Brett Kavanaugh to a seat on the United States Supreme Court.  Over the course of weeks of hearings, women came out of the woodwork to accuse Justice Kavanaugh of all sorts of nefarious deeds – none of which were substantiated.

A few short months ago, you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting a politician, actress, actor, television host, or grocery store clerk, who had a thought about how Mr. Kavanaugh should be punished for doing nothing provable.

But here we are today with all these self-righteous defenders of nothing who are trying to bring down President Donald Trump and his nominee; those phonies who work in the Congress and Senate are now dodging hard questions as to why they needed to “get to the bottom” of the Kavanaugh investigation, but have nothing to say now about those political Democratic Virginia bottom feeders.

 It’s pretty uncomfortable when the shoe is on the other foot.  It seems as though there may still be some feet in the mouths of these once verbose political clowns.

So, in summary, Ms. Diallo appears to be the only winner in this goat rodeo as a revered and respected woman who faked her heritage and was rewarded for it by the NAACP.

Elizabeth Warren, are you paying attention?

Dangerous Nitwits in Government

For the past several years, those states that still utilize capital punishment to reduce recidivism of heinous crimes, have been under fire from activists attempting to get those states to end those killings.

Let’s take this opportunity to review several issues.

Activists are those people who feel everyone on the planet deserves the absolute right to not only live, but also make countless mistakes.  Those “mistakes” include murder, rape, and aggravated assault – all felonies – and all extremely serious.  Most have no lives.

Recidivism is the recurrence of commission of crimes, ad nauseum.

Capital punishment is the penalty for committing serious, heinous crimes, with extreme prejudice.  That means those crimes are so horrific in nature, and the criminal proves to be unrepentant, the only punishment remaining is death.  Death administered by the state can be any number of ways, determined by the individual state.

Many states have outlawed capital punishment altogether because activists have muddied the truth about such a serious, non-reversible penalty being racist.  However, those states that still apply the death penalty where necessary sometimes use various methods to conduct business.

Activists who so avidly wave The Constitution in our faces when it comes to the Second Amendment and the First Amendment, and abortion, found the words, “cruel and unusual punishment,” therein.

Their twisted take on those words in the Eighth Amendment have been convoluted by lawyers so desirous and agog about releasing convicted murderous felons into anyone’s backyard – except their own – they have bastardized the meaning of protection for the innocent population at-large.

Still, some brave states have kept capital punishment in its arsenal of protection of its people.  To assuage the fears of those vocal, misinformed activists, those brave states offer the death penalty in a variety of effective methods.

Depending on the state, the express lane to St. Peter can be via electrocution, the gas chamber, firing squad, hanging, and lethal injection.  All are very efficient and very final.

And, in some states, death row inmates have the ability to select a method of termination.

It seems that doctors feel lethal injection is the most humane way to execute people.  After all, that is the same system used to help our beloved pets go on Animal Heaven.

Unfortunately, pesky lawyers and activists cry, “Foul,” as a final appeal up until the last second, for humanity.  For humanity, I said.  Not humanity for the long-deceased victims, but for the criminal who has now found God.  That’s good news, because they’re headed His way very soon.

This is where I found irony in this cesspool-like legal quagmire.

Virginia is the home-state of EasternShoreFishAndGame.com.  Just the other day, Delegate Kathy Tran-(D) sponsored a bill – that was co-sponsored by Del. Dawn Adams-(D) – which would administer a more violent and mind-numbing death sentence to helpless babies.

Their bill would allow for the outright killing of a baby – which some activists call an “unviable life source” – for any number of lame reasons, including a "woman's right to choose."

Picture of an unviable life source

Newly elected Virginia Governor Ralph Northam-(D), a pediatric neurology specialist, agreed with Del. Tran’s bill.  Unfortunately, the public went ballistic and demanded more information on this appalling idea to simply murder innocent babies at the will of the mother.

Co-sponsor Del. Adams quickly learned her loyalty to such sick, dreadful legislation could not be hidden.  Her excuse was that she didn’t thoroughly read the bill, and merely signed the bill “in solidarity with fellow women.”  Quite the legislator, I’d say.

Unfortunately, both Gov. Northam and Del. Tran are unrepentant, bordering on defiant.

It was Mahatma Ghandi who said “A nation's greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members.”

Those are usually the oldest and youngest of civilization.

And there’s another election on the horizon.