Stop The Presses!

In case you think all news these days is bad, you’ve got quite a surprise coming.

People cannot afford houses, the government is $18,000,000,000,000 in debt, there have been 58,000,000 abortions in America since 1973, the average household debt amount is $15,706, over 1,000,000 kids drop out of school each year, and Caitlin Jenner still has her “junk.”  Yet, there is good news.

With all the debt, disease, crime, death, illegal immigration, terrorism, voter fraud, and nuclear proliferation by Third World assclowns, the United States has directed its attention to something positive.

Soon, Alexander Hamilton will be no more.

If you said to yourself, “Who is Alexander Hamilton?” you are likely one of those school dropouts, or too poor to have cash.

Mr. Hamilton, Not Oprah

Mr. Hamilton was one of the Founding Fathers, helped write the Constitution, and was the United States Secretary of Treasury.  His image can be located on the ten dollar bill – for the next few days, anyway.

It seems as though some progressives feel it is time for a woman to be placed on some folding U.S. currency.

Sure, Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Warren – er, Sacagawea appear on coins, and Pocahontas and Martha Washington were once featured on paper money.  But, we need to address real issues facing all citizens that can ease the burden of life under President Barack Hussein Obama.

The solution was obvious: place a woman’s image on paper money and all our woes will disappear.

A poll was conducted and several women were considered.  These accomplished females included Rosa Parks, Susan B. Anthony, Harriet Tubman, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Oprah Winfrey.

In the lead as of this writing is Harriet Tubman.  Ms. Tubman was a slave until she was manumitted at age 45.  Her legacy is storied and depicts a brave, strong woman, especially through her time as a spy for the Union Army during the Civil War.

Over 600,000 people voted for her, with Katie Couric coming in at a close second with nine votes.  Congrats to all women and Caitlin.

Finally and sadly, Susan B. Anthony was disqualified because “she’s just that woman on the dollar coin.”

My money is on Taylor Swift, though.

I told you the news was good.

What Do I Do?

As a child, I was taught to greet people by shaking hands.  That was a way to show respect and, according to the tradition of shaking with the right hand, as display of peace. 

You see, the right hand was used to fight with swords and rapiers, and they couldn’t be on your weapon and in the other person’s hand simultaneously.

For many years, I carried on that practice, until the world changed, that is.

I was left behind by the perpetually hip who decided hand-shaking was passé, and was replaced by hand sliding.

For the youngsters in the audience, hand sliding is where you greet the other person and extend your hand – as if to shake – but instead simply slide it over their hand.  This was somewhat similar to surreptitiously wiping some nose debris off your hand, unbeknownst to the other guy.

As is apparent, this greeting was short-lived.  It was replaced by really cool peaceniks that were above touching, but not above expressing themselves with the ‘peace sign.’

The peace sign is a bit confusing because it utilizes the index and middle fingers to form a “V”.  That V could easily be confused for the V formed by the index and middle fingers that symbolized “victory.”

Winston Churchill and countless Allied soldiers used the V to proclaim a proud victory over the Germans and Italians in WWII.  Nonetheless, this symbol was hijacked by 1960’s wannabes.  Confusing indeed.

But that greeting morphed into something genuinely amusing before long. 

“Give-me-five,” was a phrase that begged the other person to slap the offered hand, turn it over, and have the ritual continue with the process occurring again.  Folks would grin and giggle to acknowledge this sacrament.

Once again, though, this nonsensical effort to say, “Hello,” evolved into something else.

Not necessarily better, greeters would meet and slap each other’s hands with something called a “high-five.”  Yes, it sounds much like the Give-me-five, unfortunately this effort required exercise to reach high into the air, for some unknown reason.

This was all the rage with little kids jumping to high-five their parents and neighbors, often missing and looking even more stupid.

Over the course of several years, this formal procedure endured with athletes, Grannies, game show hosts, and presidents, proving they were not above disgrace by acting the fool.

But today, we are so much smarter, more sophisticated, and beyond getting sucked into more goofy behavior.

Today we only fist-bump each other upon meeting.  Yes, with a clenched fist, we approach the other person and gently tap fists.  Not to appear to be unaware of the latest salutation, people add a cheesy explosion by opening their fists after bumping.

Now that’s really cool and neato and rad and special.

Being perpetually unhip ain’t so bad.

I Smell Something

My sainted wife and I were spending a quiet night at home watching a COPS marathon.  Armed with

adult beverages, we took turns cheering the chase and apprehension of miscreants in Everycity USA.

One snippet of one episode featured a young female driver chauffeuring her boyfriend about town in his car.

A complaint was called in to the local constabulary about two people sitting in a car smoking dope.

Thinking it was them, the police rousted these two victims of society, and discovered heroin, a cooking spoon, and a glass pipe used to smoke methamphetamines in the female’s lap.

Of course, they weren’t hers.  She didn’t know how they got there or from whence they came.  Her boyfriend, who just got released from prison, claimed that stuff wasn’t his. 

The police repeatedly asked both if there were any more drugs in the vehicle, or on their persons.  Both denied knowledge.

A drug-sniffing dog was summoned to ferret out any narcotics they could detect with their keen sense of smell.

I immediately looked toward Smokey the Cat, perched atop his kitty condo – a seven-foot tall structure he uses for keeping an eye out for friend and foe, alike.

Smokey opened one eye, sensing I was just thinking about him.  He gently rolled to one side and stretched his legs before falling back asleep.

Another glance from me was directed toward my sainted wife who seemed bewildered as to what I was thinking.

Smokey has a gift for telling time, a skill I taught him.  Every day, at the same time -5:00 PM – I would call out, “Treats!”  After about a week he became accustomed to eating his special snacks at 5:00 PM.  Mussolini could set his train schedules based on Smokey’s new ability.

Smokey proved to be trainable.  Why not teach him how to sniff-out drugs.  After all, I have a bottle chock-full of Lipitor, and some antacids in the medicine cabinet.  What a great place to start, I thought.

After a few thoughtful seconds, I uttered the words, “Smokey could probab...” before I was stopped.

“Smokey is not going to sniff out drugs!” blurted my sainted wife.  “He’s not that smart.”

Smokey looked over at her and jumped off his condo after giving her the stink eye.

The conversation ended as quickly as it had begun. 

It seems the drug dog found more contraband in their lovebirds’ car, and the guy was willing to let his girlfriend take the rap for all the drugs and paraphernalia.  A true match made in heaven.

But I am still going to try to teach Smokey to find drugs by sniffing them out.  He already nuzzles up to my neighbor when he visits with weed in his pocket.  I’d say that’s a good start.

Supermarket Epiphany

‘Twas nearly a week after Thanksgiving when the turkey had finally disappeared.  Turkey dinner, turkey soup, turkey pot pie, turkey wrap, and turkey sandwiches, pretty well depleted our seemingly endless supply of turkey.

 

So a trip to the supermarket for a restocking of provisions was in order.

 

My job was to simply push the cart.  No more, no less.  When I am turned loose in a store, I enjoy looking around to see what’s new and what is desperately needed.  My sainted wife, on the other hand, maintains a list to keep her focused on the mission-at-hand.

 

Any straying from the prescribed path is forbidden!

 

In the dairy section, my sainted wife broke off from the platoon to secure a carton of creamer for her coffee.  This fatal move left me unsupervised for a few short feet.

 

Being free to furtively glance about the aisle, I espied a sign for eggs selling for $2.89 per dozen.

 

I was curious about the high cost and decided to investigate.

 

My partner returned wearing a grimace, disappointed that I could not follow simple directions to not look at, or touch, anything.  ANYTHING!

 

With a sense of how Meriwether Lewis felt when he first saw the Pacific Ocean, I proudly smiled and held them out for her inspection.  I looked like one of the Magi bearing myrrh.

 

“What are you doing?” she barked.

 

“”Seeing why these eggs are so expensive,” I offered.

 

The eggs were snatched from my hand, and after scrutiny she said they were from free-range chickens.

 

Now I was even more baffled.  Free range chickens?  Where did they sleep at night, lay their eggs, hide for protection, and house themselves during inclement weather?

 

My sainted wife tells a story about her upbringing on a 100-acre farm.  The yarns include those of planting crops, harvesting fruits and vegetables, and raising chickens.

 

It seems she thinks chickens are nasty creatures that are not only dirty, but also stupid and mean.

 

To me, that is a recipe that simplifies turning chickens into McNuggets without much grief.

 

I, on the other hand, was reared in the city where trees growing between the street and sidewalk resembled a forest.

 

Enrapt, I listened to the mechanics of allowing chickens to freely roam so that they wouldn’t be cooped-up, and can live joyously until their heads are lopped-off with a machete.

 

That still doesn’t sound very humane, and the only added bonus would be higher prices for chicken carcasses and eggs that the farmers reap.

 

We didn’t buy those eggs, opting for non-free-range eggs from non-free-range chickens that were more than a dollar less expensive.

 

I’ll wager free-range chickens are more expensive because when they return home they need to pay for bus fare.

Stupid and Stupider

Lately, we’ve been hearing about some stellar ideas from the imbeciles in society about colleges and  It’s about time to address this at The Eastern Shore level.
college life.

 

At a recent Democratic Presidential Candidate debate, Bernie Sanders, the guy who is clearly not taking his meds, suggested all Americans pay for the college education of everyone who wants one. 

 

They would be available at no cost.  That statement would be true if you don’t figure in the fact that someone has to pay for the school tangibles; classrooms, books, salaries, cafeterias, dorms, beer kegs, and football uniforms, all have to be paid for.  If the students don’t pay for that stuff, who does?

 

Answer:  The taxpayer.

 

We would be led to believe taxpayers are under-challenged because they still have enough money to pay for postage to mail tax returns to the IRS.  That cash should go toward the education of kids who are too stupid to come in out of the rain.

 

Free anything is not free.  Free samples in Sam’s Club costs Sam’s Club and the manufacturers.  They are offered to the shoppers to entice them to buy that product.  Contrary to belief, they are not being served as a no-cost lunch.

 

Colleges also offer some scholarships to outstanding students who may lure friends or equally-qualified students to that institution, primarily to earn academic credentials for turning-out great graduates.

 

If some pimple-faced puke wants to go to Harvard to study Medieval Lesbian Writings, or Stanford to get a degree in 15^th Century Basket Weaving, hard working Americans should not be forced to pay for such frivolity.

 

As a high school student, back when Thomas Jefferson was a classmate of mine, I was required to take two elective classes each semester.  Mine included German, English Literature, Shakespeare, Writing FORTRAN Code, and Advanced Placement Physics, over the years.

 

Classmates saw this as an opportunity to attain an “easy A,” and took classes such as Home Economics, Finger Painting, and Appropriate Gluing Techniques.

 

College was once a place where expression of ideas and feelings were encouraged.  Today, if students feel “uncomfortable,” administrators are forced to resign.

Back during desegregation, blacks demanded equal classroom space, identical books, equal pay, and simple respect.

 

Those times were in the 1960’s and ‘70’s.  And, if you just awoke from a 70-year coma, you would believe nothing had changed if you listen to the civil rights rabble rousers.

 

Lies and half-truths are driving the modern college campuses because political correctness, and the fear of being labeled a racist, has been driving an out-of-control bus to the town of Nowhere Good.

 

At the University of Missouri, students claimed they were subjected to overt racism and felt uncomfortable.  The president resigned because of pressure from whiners.

 

The realization that blocks of power in the form of racial bullying can be used to leverage nearly anything, may actually be utilized to attempt to bring back blue unicorns.

 

Halloween costumes are shunned, Christmas is eliminated, conservative thought is discouraged, while socialism, bullying, and stifled-speech are encouraged and applauded.

 

This is an ideal time to say “NO” to this mindless mayhem called “higher education.” 

 

If the students wind up with a monumental student loan, they should get jobs.  If those jobs don’t pay enough to repay the loans, they need to rethink those “easy A’s.”

 

Pay for your own stuff, and get a life.

 

Amen.

Special: True Story of Thanksgiving Day

Every year we hear more about the secular holiday, Thanksgiving Day.  It means many things to many different people, and most of what you now hear is bunk. 

 

Buttinski’s – folks who don’t have lives of their own, so they want to get involved in yours – have been trying to rid America of this special day of gluttony and sports and naps.

 

They try to blame the extermination of Indians on the white man, and claim the original immigrants were vegetarians.

 

It’s time to gather the family around the table and read the real story of Thanksgiving Day to them. 

 

++++++++++++++++++++++

 Back in 1621, the Pilgrims and Puritans, who were transplants from that awful place, Europe, finally had a good harvest of crops and decided to celebrate to give thanks.

 

Puritans were people who left England for more religious freedom, while Pilgrims were common folk who were escaping high taxes and reality TV shows.

 

Weather was terrible – too much rain, snow, not enough rain, hail, drought, and pestilence, caused poor harvests for years.  At last, ideal weather, along with better farming techniques, helped these refugees produce a great crop.

 

In the interim, many immigrants died from both starvation and diseases so, this bounty was true cause for celebration.

 

The Indians were patiently waiting for the Europeans to die so they could get their hands on those neat black coats and buckled hats, but alas.

 

To ingratiate themselves, and get the best fit of the clothing, they assisted the Pilgrims and Puritans by feeding them until sizes were perfect.

 

The Indians gathered turkeys and stuffing and mashed potatoes to help fatten-up the nasty white folks.  All worked well until this terrific harvest, when the homeboys no longer needed the Indians’ food.  That’s when the great massacre happened.

 

Known as the First Civil War, the ungrateful white folks tried to kill all the Indians and began naming all their football and baseball teams after them as a way to slur them.

 

This program worked so well that it took nearly 400 years to make things better for the last living Indian, Pocahontas.

 

Enlightened college students figured all this out and, driven by “white guilt” and “white privilege,” had begun campaigns to eliminate all sports teams with Indian names by 1633.

 

They even changed the name of Indians to “Native Americans.”  All seems to be working out well for them.

 

Pocahontas got her image on a coin.  Or was it Sacagawea?

 

In any case, the Europeans added an amendment to The Constitution to have everyone in America eat turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cranberry sauce for dinner, and sweet potato pie for dessert.

 

That same Amendment – the 38^th – requires football and basketball games to be played on that day.  And, it made Keno legal in 17 states.

 

In 1637, Macy’s decided to have a parade, and Santa Clause showed up to celebrate, too.

 

But in an ardent effort to include African-Americans in this strictly white holiday, the Pilgrims and Puritans invented Black Friday.

 

And everyone lived happily ever-after.

 

And that’s the truth.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving Travel

Each year my sainted wife, Smokey the Cat, and I, make an annual pilgrimage to God’s Waiting Room (GWR), otherwise known as, Florida.  We do this for Thanksgiving.

 

This trip usually takes us two days and begins when the leaves have all fallen off the trees on The Eastern Shore, and the Canadians depart their cold, snowy country.  Not the geese, either.

 

I know this because, all the way down Interstate 95, I see nothing but vehicles with Canadian license plates.

 

One Winnebago after another, all towing cars, all driving in the left lane going 37 MPH, cruised to GWR.  They closely resembled a freight train of gypsies wearing stupid hats.

 

It was a shame they were forced to share the left lane with all those folks from New Jersey.  It seems those signs that read Slower Traffic Keep Right, are pretty confusing.

 

Here’s a quick lesson.  Stand up.  Face north; use a compass if you must.  Point to the east with one hand, the west with the other.  The one that is eastward it your right hand.  If other cars are passing you on that side, you need to get over into the right lane and stay there.  Amen.

 

By the end of our second day of travel, it was official: the last person left Quebec and was heading toward Georgia, in the left lane.  I hope they turned off the lights, eh?

 

We had a time getting Smokey into his cage for the remainder of journey.  He so enjoys hiding behind the headboard of the hotel bed, clawed into the Berber carpet, as if hanging onto a cliff.

 

Real coffee, good coffee, and the obligatory $3 plastic bottle of water were bought at the gas station, for the short trip to the first rest area.

 

We desperately tried to drive slowly enough for the Canucks to catch up, but alas.

 

Just for the record, I am the best driver in the world.  Just ask my sainted wife.  So, here are a few quick tips for your next road trip.  And, they’re free.

 

When driving, stop texting.  Some woman in a Chevy Cavalier was texting something critical to the national security while in the middle lane, driving 31 MPH.  Yep, New Greaseyites and Canadians thought they were in the Twilight Zone, actually passing someone.

 

If you pull out to pass a vehicle, pass it.  A new joke is out there for the douchebags that drive those semis.  They pull out to pass, and then slow down.  I followed these assclowns for seven miles.  Must be a game of some sort for the simple-minded truck drivers.

 

Stay in the middle or slow lane – remember our little lesson? - unless you are passing.  The passing lane is no more scenic than the middle or slow lanes.  Trust me.

 

Finally, at the rest stops, pull into a space.  Here’s a freebie: You will not find anything closer to the door.  Besides, when you go to Walmart, with your pants up around your chest, you walk for endless hours “for exercise.”  Try getting some at the rest area.

 

We arrived safely, thanked God for an amusing trip, and enjoyed an adult beverage.  I may wind up as stuffed as the turkey.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

By the way, check back on Thanksgiving Day for a special treat! 

Learning Something New

The Jeff Rodgers

Every once in a while we receive material from outside sources that needs fit special criteria in order to make it onto our selective site.  Since those criteria are extremely hard to achieve, there has never been one to make its way to the point of public viewing.

 

Those goals include the information must be interesting, verifiable, and family-oriented. 

 

A few weeks ago, I got a snail-mail letter from an acquaintance.  Well, he’s more than an acquaintance; more like a friend.  He’s not a best friend.  He’s a good friend.  Well, I’ve had dinner at his house so, he’s a pretty good friend.  And, we had steak and great conversation.  He’s a great friend and correspondent.  But, I digress.

 

That envelope contained a newspaper article that was interesting enough, verifiable, and family-oriented.  In its original form it truly is clean but, I needed to edit it with synonyms to both keep it clean and add humor.  Read on and you’ll understand.

 

The article headline reads: “Largest fossilized poop exhibit coming to Bradenton museum.”

 

Yep.

 

Now do you see where this is going?

 

A sub heading reads: “Amazing Coprolite Collection to be on display for National Fossil Day Saturday.”

 

The amazing part for me was there is a National Fossil Day.  The fact it is held in Florida makes sense since it is primarily comprised of fossils driving Buicks.

 

But, I also had to look up “coprolite,” as I had never run across that word before.  Ever.

 

It seems coprolite is Greek for “dung stone,” which means there was enough of it lying about for an entire nationality of people to invent a word for it.

 

“Hey, Nikko!  Did you see that pile of coprolite near the Parthenon?” is what I imagine Ajax yelling across the Acropolis.

 

“Now’s a good time to tell me.  Yuk!” replies Ajax, while scraping off his sandal.

 

In any case, The Amazing Coprolite Collection, which this is, includes 1,277 individual pieces of fossilized poop, certified by Guinness World Records.  These precious samples came from 15 states in the United States, according to this Herald Staff report. 

 

The part they left out was that 973 of them were collected from my lawn and originally placed their by neighborhood dogs.  Thanks!

 

Jeff Rodgers is the South Florida Museum Director of Education who has a collection of his own, and is “especially enthusiastic about this special exhibition.”

 

The really good news that on that special Saturday, admission to this bonanza of poop was “less than half-price: $9 for adults, $8 for seniors, and $7 for kids.”  Sorry we got this too late to make an attendance difference.

 

Nonetheless, Jeff added that seeing crocodilian coprolites and spirals of fossilized fish poop was what he considered “a good day at work.”  You bet.

 

This guy really knows his $#!+, and he has a $#!++4 job.

 

I just had to do it.

Happy What?

We just celebrated that special religious holiday to which everyone looks forward, and we know what

it is because we see all the Christmas trees on display on stores: Halloween.

 

Somehow America skipped over the fact that Halloween is a Christian celebration, something those secularists who so greatly fear they attempt to rid the world of baby Jesus, but plow full steam ahead for “the sake of the kids.”

 

We took religion out of the schools for “the sake of the kids.”  Now it is fashionable to put it back into the schools so that everyone can be jealous of the other kid’s costumes.  But, I digress.

 

In the vein of “the sake of the kids,” I was concerned about their health and well-being.  I have been bombarded with news about too much this or too much that and how it can all be bad for the kids.

 

One city actually attempted to ban Halloween altogether because someone’s child was allergic to peanuts.  It seems this rug rat’s mother was so successful in getting snacks eliminated from school, for the benefit of her kid, she wanted to flex her maternal muscles and show everyone how much clout she possessed.

 

Thank God other sane parents said, “ENOUGH!!!”  If your kids are allergic to peanuts, keep them home.  Don’t penalize the rest of society.

 

If your kid can’t play soccer because of lack of athletic skills, don’t eliminate sports.  Tell your kid to take up knitting or cheerleading.

 

In any case, I tried to help out the kids and their parents by offering gluten-free snacks in the form of celery sticks and baby carrots.

 

Of course it was a popular and healthy contribution.  I also offered tofu, but they seemed to opt for the veggie stuff.  Good boys and girls, indeed.

 

My sainted wife, on the other hand, passed out gluten-filled pretzels, much to my chagrin.  She and a neighbor actually tried to get one of the kids to go home and get crab dip to assemble a party.  No luck, though.

 

Still the children arrived to grab treats wholesale.  There were fairies, Star Wars characters, several Grim Reapers, a starlet, two soldiers who weren’t deployed to Iraq, a cowboy, lobster and mermaid, and a zombie or two or three.

 

Four guys with beards appeared, too.  Thinking they were the Duck Dynasty fellows, I complimented them on their costumes.  They were actually just too old for kiddie activities like ‘trick or treating,’ and their facial hair was real.  They would have preferred a cold beer instead of celery.

 

Yet, the kids had great luck while their parents enjoyed themselves hobnobbing with the neighbors.

 

All was well on The Eastern Shore.  And I kept the Reese’s cups for myself.

Facts

 

 

 

 

 

 

Facts are good, except when Democrats are speaking.  No, this is not a political column today; rather it is the truth with an analogy.  Nonetheless, here are a few facts.

 

• Gale-force winds will appear when you try to sweep your sidewalk.
• Not a breath of air will blow if you attempt to fly a kite.
• You cannot lick your elbow.
• Someone will call when you are sitting on the toilet.

 

In that same vein, someone asked me if I was going to see the new Star Wars movie.  I told them it had been some time since I’ve been in a theater, and it’s not because of armed patrons sitting next to me.

 

The last time I was in a movie house was 1997, when I saw Batman, starring George Clooney.

 

Back then, the cinema was packed and, as usual, someone jumped up in the middle of a tense scene as the villain was creeping up behind Batman, and yelled, “Look out!  He’s behind you!”

 

Yes, this person believed she could warn Batman he was in danger.  She couldn’t.  She did get the attention of everyone else, though.

 

Before that, I would enter a theater and scope out a good place to sit.  Stereo was coming into vogue and that was instrumental to a pleasurable movie experience, to me.

 

I also needed a place where I could see the screen fairly well.  And although I’m a spitting-image of Tom Selleck and built like him, I usually found myself in a poor position.

 

Just as the upcoming trailers were running, a giant cowboy with a 30 gallon hat would mosey over to the row in front of me and settle into the seat directly in front of me.  I’d be better off listening to the movie on the radio.

 

Or a woman with one of those queen-sized hairdos – the kind that would shame Carmen Miranda (look her up) – would plop her derriere in my line-of-sight, rendering me blind to the screen.

 

Keep in mind this sort of bad luck was not limited to movies.  Seminars at work, classes in school, and civic meetings were also subject to this sort of artificial blinding.

 

Not unlike parking your car in a lot, only to return to discover the Queen Elizabeth II docked right next to you.  You can’t back out because you can’t see.  As you ease your sedan into the aisle in reverse, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. comes by at 210 MPH blowing his horn to tell you he’s an assclown.  But, I digress.

 

My seat was rendered useless because I was unable to see the screen to the overhead projector, missing the important points of the entire exercise.  I would lean the left, the big coiffed woman would lean to the left; I would lean to the right, and she would too.

 

The only way I could see around her was to jump up and yell, “Look out!  He’s behind you!”

 

 

Really?

While traipsing about The Eastern Shore last week, I came across a sign that read “The Eastern

Shore’s Best Fried Chicken.”

 

I eat a lot and a lot of that food consists of fried chicken.  And, some of that chicken was had at restaurants, fast food joints, diners, even gas stations, but this sign was prominently placed in front of a flea market.

 

This is a place I visit semi-frequently, going inside to use the restroom, on occasion.  The restrooms are located very nearby the kiosk that vends food, including that “Best Fried Chicken.”

 

Fearing being a victim of a grease fire, I do my business as quickly as possible, then exiting.  On the way out the door I always notice a lengthy queue of food patrons awaiting their orders.  And I always say a brief silent prayer for their continued health.

 

Not being the bravest soul on the planet I have trepidations about eating fried chicken from this oily spectacle.  I’d ask those in line about the quality of that chicken but, I don’t speak Spanish.

 

Nonetheless, I went about my trek and wondered about how the judging was accomplished.  Awarding this hole-in-the-wall “The Eastern Shore’s Best Fried Chicken” trophy was odd, to say the least.

 

Not recalling a ballot or questionnaire regarding the gustatory perception of fried chicken anywhere near The Shore, I felt compelled to research this matter for our readers.

 

It so happens that there are lots of “bests” on The Shore.  There are oyster roasts, parties, hotels, beaches, high schools, weddings, festivals, bands, car dealers, ceramic tile centers, variety stores, coastal towns, magazines, newspapers, universities, and crabs.

 

I had no idea.

 

Evidently these elections are private affairs, as I have never seen a ballot for something akin to the “best bait,” or “best incomprehensible dialect.”

 

Still, I tried to help our readers sort out the best from the mediocre and the so-so.  You’ll likely never see a sign reading “Stop Here for The Eastern Shore’s So-So Tire Shop.”  If you do, write me.

 

So I realize this is, in many cases, a self-assigned honor designed to lure the hapless and misinformed into a particular business for the sake of saying, “gotcha!”

 

This sort of blind faith is okay for hotels, store, and ceramic tiles, but if you hear the word “ptomaine,” then it’s gotcha!

I’m Sick, Too!

Like cycles of the moon, fads come and go.  Pokemon©, Hula Hoop©, Frisbee©, and Paris Hilton, are all examples of fads that had their heyday and thankfully vanished into has-been status.

 

This also happens with foods.  Liquid chocolate fountains, chicken wings, fondue, and burned-tasting over-expensive coffee, are another few examples of fads that are going the way of the dodo.

 

Even medical woes have their days on the fad list.  Peanut allergies, kid’s braces, and over-tanning, have been added to that list.  And so has celiac disease, aka. CD.

 

Never being a fad kind-of-guy, chicken wings are about the only one with which I got involved, and it shows.

 

But today, nearly everyone you meet has CD. 

 

“I can’t eat bread because it has wheat flour,” is often heard being uttered by simple morons.

 

“Do you have celiac disease?” queries the deli owner.

 

“Uh, no.  But I heard wheat flour contains gluten, and gluten is bad,” proudly states the moron.

 

No, it’s not.

 

CD is a digestion problem that is caused by the ingestion of gluten in the form of wheat.  These vehicles include pasta, bread, cookies, cakes, and anything else made from wheat flour.

 

An estimated 100,000,000 American fad-followers are attempting to go gluten-free because they heard gluten was bad for you.  It is not, unless you have CD; otherwise, you are simply proving you are a sheep.

 

Only 1% of the population suffers from CD, and I sympathize with them.  It must be a terrible thing to live life without pizza or brownies.

 

I, too, suffer from allergies, including one from the spice sage.  Violently ill, would be the best way to describe my personal reaction to even smelling sage, much less eating it.  I do understand about real allergies.

 

But, people who merely want to join the fad of CD may actually be hurting themselves in the long run.

 

Your stomach may hurt because of your reduction of fiber.  You’ll be extra tired because you are ingesting fewer carbs.  Gluten-free foods often use rice as the filler; rice is a source of inorganic arsenic, and can contribute to lung cancer, bladder cancer, and type-2 diabetes.  Congrats!

 

In summation, businesses are trying to capitalize on your perceived medical issue of CD and are offering everything from gluten-free lap dances, to gluten-free haircuts.

 

Caveat emptor.  For those reader living in Philadelphia, that is Latin for ‘buyer beware.”

 

Next month it will be something new.  Just keep in mind that lead, uranium, and cocaine are gluten-free, too.

My Hair Hurts

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” is an idiom that references just that.  Before the days of refrigeration, the act of removing fish from their travel vessels – barrels – was far easier to point a gun into the barrel and dispatch them by shooting them in that confined space, than to try to grab them alive.

 

This is similar to the situation of October 2, 2015, in Roseburg, Oregon’s Umpqua Community College.  There, a nut-job with a couple of guns took aim at students attempting to benefit themselves by improving their life-skills.

 

Without going into too much detail, mass murders seem to becoming the latest trend among the mentally ill among us.

 

Similar tragedies have occurred elsewhere over the past few years.  And, those similar tragedies are closely related.  They have all been committed by crazy losers who have an imaginary scab to pick on an innocent segment of society.

 

Offices, schools, theaters, day-car centers, shopping malls, and military bases, have all been subject to heinous crimes committed by animals who should have been institutionalized.

 

Even President Barack Hussein Obama noticed the actions of this shooter.  I specify this because he has yet to mention the shooting of Kate Steinle by an illegal alien with an illegal gun, while committing illegal acts such as trespassing and firearm possession.  He had no words for her or that murder.

 

But when President Obama found out about this horrible event, he decided to address it in a televised message.  Feigning crocodile tears, albeit missing the prop Kleenex tissue, he immediately condemned gun owners and the NRA for this act.

 

Quite similar to a scene from the movie Groundhog Day, President Obama predictably called for the Republican Congress to “do something.”  Those are code words for outlawing guns in America.

 

But this tragedy was somewhat different because we didn’t get information about the gunman for many, many hours after the news broke.  Leaks are common in these cases but, this one appeared odd.  No information about anything but his age.  The Roseburg Sheriff claimed he didn’t want the killer to receive desired notoriety.  That was baloney to the nth degree.

 

And then we found out why.

 

Chris Harper-Mercer was the nut-job coward.  He was in his mid-twenties, and was actually taking a class at Umpqua CC.

 

According to witness reports, this coward cornered the fish inside the gun-free zone classrooms and methodically asked each about their religion; where they were shot was dependent upon their answers.

 

Non-Christian, leg; avowed Christian, head. 

 

Confrontation with police led to this coward committing suicide.  Thank God he saved us the agony of a trial.  Amen.

 

However, the story does not end here, and we now know why.

 

The Los Angeles Times, a decidedly liberal rag disguised as a newspaper, just released the real reason President Obama, the Roseburg Sheriff, and the balance of the media refused to provide more details about that Harper-Mercer puke.

 

“The Los Angeles Times has labeled the Oregon shooter as having ‘white supremacist leanings’ even though the shooter was black." That was the headline reported by Breitbart.com.  And CNN, the Communist News Network, also reportedly re-tinted Harper-Mercer’s photo to give the impression he was Caucasian.  Pretty neat, eh?

 

I feel great remorse for the victims and their families, and especially President Obama who desperately tries to criminalize the people and guns who had nothing to do with anything.

 

His phony rants would be better placed if he applied them to the 14,000,000 aborted babies that he promotes and actually cheers.

 

You can’t have it both ways, brother.