School Daze

It’s been forty years since I was in high school, and I now realize how much I missed throughout

those formative years.

Indeed, high school was the best seven years I spent in my life.  For you mathematically-challenged readers, that is a joke.

I mostly hung out with equally nerdy kids – none of which could buy a date much less get one from a fellow classmate for nothing.  To say the least, we were woefully inept upon reaching the real world of dating in college.

Jocks were not in our clique because they were so much better than us.  They were more muscular, better-looking, drove cars, wore fashionable clothes, and had facial hair, but none could be accused in a court of law of being intelligent.

It seems as though high school girls in the Stone Age were attracted to muscles, vehicles, pretty clothes horses with beards, over someone smart enough to come in out of the rain.

So it is with interest that I read yet another unbelievable story, this one from Florida.  Florida is a place where the sun is so hot that it actually bakes brains.  In case you don’t believe me, do an internet search for weird stories and see how few are not centered on Florida.

Once again, a teacher was arrested for having sex with a student.  Before we jump to conclusions, we must check the ages of the participants.  Some of my fellow jock schoolmates may still be in high school, and this “victim” may be one of them.

Alas, this victim was only 15, while the teacher was 30.  Nope, none of my classmates.

In any case, this teacher was allegedly discovered performing lewd acts in this minor because of some stupid reason.  You see, if the kid was a jock, he told on her; if he was a nerd, he’d never tell anyone but his nerd buddies.

Instead, this teacher is in jail for teaching sexual education lessons after hours.  Where’s the outrage over not applauding this educator for going the extra mile?

But I’ve read this story before.  So an internet search of “teachers having sex with students,” turned-up voluminous lists and accompanying photos and bios of the imprisoned teachers.  This list contained literally hundreds, and there were several lists from which to choose.  This seems to have reached epidemic levels.

Some quick ciphering – based on this list alone – tells me that in 2023, America will be fresh out of female teachers that aren’t teaching reading to fellow inmates or aren’t wearing ankle monitors.

Granted, some of these relationships are lesbian in nature but, for the most part, they are heterosexual.

So, if you are a female teacher with an over-exuberant libido, and simply can’t find a more age-appropriate partner for your sordid sexual escapades take my advice and get yourself a nerd.

After all, they know a lot.  They would also be delighted to not be virgins and not to open their mouths.  That is free advice.

At No Charge

Doggles

If you’re not a regular visitor to this website, you’ll be delighted to know I am chock full of ideas.  Some of which are really good, too.

 

Although I’m not yet a wealthy man because of all my astute observations and drive, I still believe I will stumble upon that one stellar inspiration needed to help me fulfill my dreams.

 

Too often inventors are discouraged from formulating thoughts from whole cloth; others thrive on such initiatives and wind up wildly successful.

 

Pet rocks, working vacations, and doggles are just a few ideas at which the masses laughed, but made small fortunes for their creators.

 

Last St. Valentine’s Day I brought up a cutting-edge idea that because Americans are led to believe there are only twelve straight people alive in the United States today everyone else is gay and should rule society by simple majority.

 

Yet, it is impossible to find Valentine’s Day cards targeted to gays, lesbians, bi-sexuals, and transvestites.

 

An ardent search through the extensive greeting card selection in my local department store failed to turn up any cards that would be both specific and appropriate to be sent on Valentine’s Day.

 

Clearly there is a void in this market.  A closer inspection negated the location of congratulatory wedding cards, too.

 

With all the hoopla about gay marriages, replete with lawsuits on both the local and federal levels, it is plain to see there is much love to celebrate and something for which corporate America can capitalize on.

 

While we’re on the subject of greeting cards, there is another chasm in the I-feel-your-pain/love arena.  Before retirement I spent countless hours listening to cry-in-your-beer tales from women who decided to leave their husbands for any number of reasons.

 

They were tired to him not picking up dirty socks, dropped food, or the toilet seat.  All were grounds for divorce from the female perspective, along with parties to celebrate the big break.  Similarly anguished friends and co-workers would throw galas to mark the end of potato chips on the shag carpet.

 

Not long after though, the departed party would be less elated and require moral support.

 

Here’s another free Hallmark© freebie.  Divorce cards.  They could easily fit in-between “Sorry your hamster died,” and “You should have gotten that fast-food job.”

 

Speaking of pain, bandages are available in all sorts of styles, designs, and colors.

 

They can be found in camouflage, pink, adorned with cartoon characters, superheroes, and “flesh color.”

 

I got the “flesh color” from my Crayola© crayon box.  I often used the box of 64 which included wax crayons of 63 colors plus flesh.

 

Again, I see a void in the medical supply field for bandages for black people.

 

I was careful not to use the term African-American because Gary Player and Charlize Theron are white African-Americans.  That’s a freebie for all you politically correct douchebags.  But I digress.

 

If I were black, I’d like to have a wound cover to help me deal with my trauma without the wild color variation that cries: I’m a klutz!

 

There you have it.  A couple stellar ideas for making millions.  You are welcomed!

XOXOXO

It is crunch time for anyone who is in love.  Yes, we are in the home stretch toward that annoying contrived holiday, St. Valentine’s Day.

To appease agnostics, pagans, and the politically correct, society is dropping the religious portion of that day which honored the patron saint, St. Valentine, and converting it into the secular Valentine’s Day.  This move is not unexpected in the vein of Sparkle Days being the replacement name for Christmas, and That Spring-Egg Holiday a poor substitute for Easter.  But, I digress.

Valentine’s Day is one of those Hallmark holidays that grew dramatically in the recent past, springing from the Hallmark Greeting Card Company, as a vehicle to sell more cards.

Goading men into showing women how much they loved their women by purchasing cards, flowers, and candy, has grown into an extortion-like moment that sets the stage for the balance of the calendar year, and puts in jeopardy any physical activity associated therewith.

Trinkets of our appreciation and adoration via a box of chocolates have evolved to chocolate-colored diamonds.  “Special pajamas” for “her,” giant teddy bears, $120-a-dozen red roses have become the norm, where money to show gratitude and adoration should have no limit.

I don’t mean to sound cheap but, greeting cards used to cost a buck.  Today, those same cards with the same words are $5.50.  Roses that are astronomically priced come from Brazil and their sale, along with that of chocolate, only help the South Americans and their third-world economies.

Still, I would expect to be relegated to the dog house if I gave my sainted wife footy pajamas for any occasion, much less Valentine’s Day.

I suppose this Kwanzaa-like event, which means nothing to anyone not a Christian, began innocently enough.  Unfortunately, its evolution has become troubling by encouraging the average guy to show how much he loves his woman with proportionate amount of money spent for a gift and dinner out.

Of course, women get in on the act, too.  They already have cards purchased back in 1987 with cute koala bears or some simply adorned with lacy hearts, bought during those “just-in-case” days, when a card of such might be needed when they find a guy

Today, however, is a bit more complex.  My Inspector Clouseau-moment of investigation kicked-in while at my local department store.  I was curiously searching for a card that was specifically written for a member for the lesbian, gay, bi-sexual, and transgender community.

After all, with all the hoopla over same-sex marriage and the right to love anyone anyway, I was inquisitively hoping to find cards or balloons or stuffed critters that would state some peculiar proclivity.  I could find none, though.

Two guys holding hands, a pair of women in silhouette walking hand-in-hand, a woman dressed more manly than The Rock, all eluded my search.

But Valentine’s Day is one of those occasions that will find the non-adoring of any sexual inclination in hot water – and not necessarily in a spa.

Good luck trying to please that special person.  You can always write to Uncle Paul for advice at a later date.

http://easternshorefishandgame.blogspot.com/p/ask-uncle-paul.html

Da Big Game

Today we find ourselves recovering from the “Big Game.”  I am not using the normal words for the annual match between the AFC and NFC champions rather, I am wisely using Big Game for a specific reason.

 

Is seems as though the Big Game police are charging for use of the registered words, er, you know what they are.  It is like trying to describe an orange without using the orange.

 

By the way, nothing in the English language rhymes with orange.  But, I digress.

 

The Big Game is the culmination of weeks upon weeks of grown men running up and down a field in tight britches grabbing other guys.  They try to move an oddly-shaped ball around and score more points than the other team.

 

They dilly dally or lollygag – is there a difference? - for nearly four quarters of fifteen minutes each.  Then, when they are near the end of the game, they are magically rejuvenated and quickly play ball as if their lives depended upon it.

 

These football players complain about everything from their poultry salaries of several million dollars to being hit and later suffering from their injuries.  Some dislike the idea they must speak with the media to produce stories for their moronic fans that actually pay money to watch these whiners.

 

It seems the money should be large and the fan base small, according to these geniuses.

 

In any case, Big Game day is usually celebrated by nearly everyone who likes to eat and drink.  Beer and snack companies deluge the circulars and supermarkets for weeks prior to this event, each hawking their goods to die-hard football fans.

 

Nachos, dips, potato chips, brats, and a compendium of various beverage companies all vie to cater to the discerning appetites of Big Game fans and other wannabe fans.

 

But during the Big Game many other products are advertised to the inebriated masses tuned in to see the nearly endless commercials and the usually-less-than-spectacular half-time show. 

 

In fact, many, many people tune in just to see the commercials.  And that is good news for the advertisers inasmuch as they are paying $4,500,000, for a 30 second spot this year.

 

Speaking of this year, the performer is someone named Katy Perry, I think.

 

People on the news were agog over her selection as this years’ big performer.  Evidently Ms. Perry is popular.  Somewhere along her career path she became pretty popular for showing her cleavage, and a lot of it.  Catching a glimpse of her attributes is the only reason I tuned in, only to find she had a modest moment for this exhibition.  Just my luck.

 

Still, the game goes on with the drunken debauchery of Big Game Sunday with copious amounts of alcoholic beverages flowing, wagering happening, and food being consumed.  All that leads to a week of recovery.  Welcome.