Best Idea Ever

ˌtrebyəˈSHet/  noun: trebuchet; plural noun: trebuchets; noun: trebucket; plural noun: trebuckets

      a machine used in medieval siege warfare for hurling large stones or other missiles.

 

 

Words often heard after reading this weekly blog include, “Wow!  What a great idea!” and, “I never thought of it that way!” and “That guy should be institutionalized!”

 

This is one of those “Wow!  What a great idea!” moments.

 

Each year, on The Eastern Shore, creative folks gather to compete with their homemade trebuchets, as there is no outlet for purchase of trebuchets near our home.

 

These devices were used extensively in the Middle Ages, roughly the 1300’s, to toss stuff over the walls of castles under siege.  In essence, these devices were the heavy artillery of the time.

 

Large boulders and bodies infected with diseases would be launched into the supposedly safe confines of the fortified ramparts, only to find a dilemma of what to do with the biological weapon of the time.

 

According to history, trebuchets, also known as catapults, found a niche in warfare whose only downfall was mobility.

 

It seems as though the illegal alien problem in America has been brought to the forefront by a viable presidential candidate named Donald Trump.  This problem is not new, as is evidenced in Nannygate. 

 

For you youngsters, or those with poor memories, Nannygate was the result of the 1993 nomination for the United States Attorney General by our first black president, William Jefferson Clinton.

 

He nominated federal judge Zoe Baird for consideration, who quickly withdrew because of her employing several illegal aliens as housekeepers and nannies.  Immediately thereafter, President Clinton nominated Kimba Wood, another judge who also employed illegal aliens.  It appeared to be an epidemic.

 

Finally, he decided to nominate swimsuit model Janet Reno, instead.  She got the job.

 

But after all these years – twenty-two, to be exact – the problem remains and the hand-wringing continues.

 

An idea to build a fence along the border was met with snarls of disapproval by illegal aliens.  Go figure.

 

That fence would cost too much, and the monies to build it would have to come from the services given to these law-breakers.  Free housing, education, food, telephones, and medical care would have to be cut, but that would be unfair to the criminals who broke into America.

 

Here’s my idea.  Build the fence with the admission fees of, let’s say $10 per person.

 

Admission, you say?  This is where those trebuchets come in.

 

Line them up against the border fence and load them with illegal aliens.

 

It could be a new hobby that would keep those clever mechanical geniuses in business, year-round.  Rather than just pumpkin chunking, those ancient artillery pieces could be used for illegal alien chunking.

 

You’re welcome.

Shake ‘n Bake

My sainted wife says she hates “reality shows.”  That is until it comes to the cooking contest “reality shows.”

 

I put those words in quotes because there is nothing real about them except the time wasted watching them.

 

To satisfy my curiosity – much like slowing to look at a train wreck – I, too watch them.  They are, at best, hokey because they are all staged to keep the viewers coming back for more.

 

Akin to penance for burning pork chops at home, audience members watch amateur chefs and wanna-be cooks week after week until the winner is named to the same grunts.

 

“I can’t believe they won!?!” is the usual response following the finale.

 

Of course, this was not by chance.  I have a better chance of being named the next pope, than some of these contestants winning.

 

They are too predictable.  The contestants are always a mixed bag of weird and seem to conform to a long-standing formula to attract viewers.  For some reason, the series run must reflect society.  Likely, this is to maintain viewers who will cheer or jeer for certain contestants.

 

You will notice some people vying for the prize are meek, some are brash, others are arrogant, and at least one contestant is an egomaniac.

 

Each has a story of woe.  They were raised by a single mother, or they swam – blindfolded - from Thailand to California to compete, or they had a leg bitten-off while saving a toddler from an alligator attack.

 

And, the social experiment continues with the make-up of the show itself.

 

Here’s what you’ll see: one funky white guy, one hunky white guy, one fairly attractive white woman, one Latino woman or man, one fearsome-looking black guy, one black lesbian, one timid white woman bedecked with tattoos, and one white woman with wildly-dyed hair.  At least one of this cast of misfits will wear a stupid hat of some sort.  And, lest we forget about the flamboyantly gay guy who is obligated to lisp and swish.

 

Throughout the course of each contest tempers will flare, romances will start and end, someone will get their feelings hurt, a few will brag about their skills and abilities, and all will believe they can actually prevail over the rest.

 

These “chefs” will duke it out throughout the course of time and eventually be eliminated by their popularity.  However, the trouble-makers are guaranteed to remain until the last two episodes just to enable them to create turmoil and excitement.

 

Sure, I’ll continue to watch and my sainted wife will remain loyal but, not to see who wins.  Rather, I’ll watch to see if my wagering will pay off.

Perplexing II

“Perplexing” is the best way to describe my feelings lately.  The media directing their hand-picked stories to the masses for consumption has not changed as those stories have a bias that remains anti-conservative.

 

Over the past six months we have witnessed riots around the nation, caused by miscreants who like to complain about everything and nothing.

 

Most of those trouble makers are native to the areas they looted and burned, and have no one to blame but themselves.  Alas, they do.

 

At the first sign of mayhem, the police are called in to quell any property destruction and injury to lives.  The residents then complain that the police presence made them angry to the point they needed to throw cinder blocks through store windows.  Burning police vehicles didn’t hurt with this calming process.

 

It seems all this destruction was the result of a criminal being shot while not complying with orders.  That is perplexing.

 

The masses then invented a new phrase that actually didn’t apply to the situation at-hand.  “Hands up, don’t shoot,” was the propaganda that spewed across the nation to intimate the police shot an innocent black man.  He was black, but not necessarily innocent.

 

After several months of this tripe, the message became, “Black lives matter.”

 

Such a statement, while true, only goes part way to defining the situation.  When a similar phrase, “All lives matter,” was added by white neighbor constituents, the hoopla began, again.

 

The new cry was that “only black lives mattered.”  Even those white people who stood in solidarity with and among the grieving blacks were not recognized.  This is perplexing, too.

 

Which led me to a thought I had because of more news that wasn’t news at all.

 

I was born a man and plan on remaining one for the balance of my life.  I certainly don’t begrudge anyone from leading their life in any form whatsoever.  I recall a story of a Pennsylvania man who lives his life as a dog.

 

So it was with interest that I heard all the hype of an Olympian star who decided he wanted to live his life as a she.

 

All the news organizations and MSNBC picked up this story and ran with it for weeks.  Bruce Jenner, whose latest claim to fame is his marriage to the Kardashian clan, apparently felt his life would be better if he sat down to pee.

 

Interview upon interview upon interview found him telling fawning TV hosts he wanted to be a woman.

 

The big coming-out announcement occurred and he made a splash on the news and on magazine covers.

 

Bedecked in a gown wearing full makeup, and sporting tasteful jewels, he again gave interview after interview.  Comedians used him as fodder.  And the LGBT community hailed him as a “hero.”

 

This is where I realize you are thinking I made a mistake by referring to him as a him.

 

Mr. Jenner is still Mr. Jenner.  And he will remain so until his gonadectomy is done.  Otherwise he is just a man wearing a chiffon dress with satin high heels.  Perplexing, indeed.

Selective Enforcement

Really Hot Women, Maybe

Growing up as a child I recall watching not only cartoons on Saturday mornings, but also watching the cool commercials that were the mainstay of keeping them afloat for countless heads of mush.

 

Each week I dutifully tuned-in to see Wyle E. Coyote chase the Roadrunner, Jerry get the better of Tom, and Popeye eat his spinach while beating-up Bluto.  Those were the days.

 

Betwixt and between were ads peppered with cereals that contain way too much sugar for a third-world country, much less a ten-year old child born with extra energy.  Still, some other ads were laced with the coolest toys imaginable, and those went on the list to Santa.

 

G.I. Joe was relatively new but, it was a doll; boys didn’t play with dolls.  So my attention was directed toward boy-stuff.  There was certainly an abundance of wire-remote controlled trucks, cars, jets, and heavy equipment.

 

I still recall seeing a giant yellow plastic bulldozer move mountains of dirt, with clods flying hither and yon, with an equally cool dump truck waiting in the background to tote the load away while making a new dirt road for my other play vehicles.

 

Those commercials were slickly done with the finest editing equipment of the early- to mid-1960’s.  Real life machinery was interspersed with close-ups of toys to make their use and potential clear, and add a sense of excitement that still echoes in my semi-developed cranium.

 

Just thinking about that commercial makes me want to head into the yard with earth-moving equipment to get my knees muddied, and boyish creativity out, once and for all.

 

Such toys allowed me and my playmates to pretend to pave roads, dig trenches for rainwater irrigation, and mountains for my little green soldiers to hide behind.

 

Times were good and I was happy.  Then, the federal government felt it needed to get involved.

 

Yes, some bed-wetting do-gooder felt compelled to chastise the toy makers for giving small kids the impression those toys could move dirt and help create fun for hours.  They did.  But, because the TV ads of plastic play things were interspersed with real-life footage of heavy equipment, the commercials were misleading.

 

I was under no misconception that I would be able to move Mount Rushmore with my orange Tonka steam shovel.  Nonetheless, those ads needed to cease, and quickly.  They were false, and we’ll have none of that.

 

Remember the G.I. Joe dolls?  They were really called action figures, still they were advertised with Vietnam War footage and sound effects running in the background.

 

I’m pretty sure no kid thought our soldiers were playing with action figures during the Tet Offensive.

 

And, for those who wager on this website, I’ll bet Duff Goldman won’t buy an Easy Bake Oven because he would be under the impression he could bake a four-tier wedding cake in one.

 

It was truth in advertising that called all the neat commercials to an end.

 

So, it was with interest that I watched a television ad for a flavored vodka.  They showed a guy opening a bottle of this stuff near a swimming pool.  Suddenly thirty of the most beautiful people in the planet appeared and danced and smiled while Christmas lights twinkled and reflected in the water.

 

I’ve been retired for years and have met tons of people throughout my over six decades of life and travel, and I couldn’t show you three acquaintances that good looking.  And, I’ve never seen a party that festive.  Ever.

 

What happened to that truth in advertising crap?

I Beg Your Pardon

My sainted wife and I, along with another couple, were enjoying an early dinner at our yacht club last night.   Yes, I belong to a yacht club, so there!  A substitute Maître d walked by chatting with new diners while we all eavesdropped.

“I hofe yoo ‘mjoy yoo ‘inner,” was all our table could make out.

The newly-seated party exchanged glances of bewilderment after the young greeter’s departure.  A tone of sympathy set in when they mistook her poor communication skills for a disability.

“Is she vocally disabled?” one of our table asked the other three.

At which time I felt compelled to interject the real reason she possessed a lingual challenge.  Her tongue was bifurcated.

To save you the time and energy to look it up, a bifurcated tongue is one on which the owner surgically slices it down the middle until they reach the anchor point on the mouth bottom.

After some practice, the two snake-like tongue parts can move independently.  This is important to the person who sought such body modifications because they are considered really erotic during sexual episodes.  Eating an ice cream cone - not so much.

The one downfall is that if you have a job outside the bedroom or brothel, you’ll likely have to engage others in meaningful conversation that renders words slurred.

“Wuv it goo fo yoo?” is the way I imagine the post-copulation talk going.

All this may be totally satisfactory for those who even work on an assembly line or in some sort of occupation that requires little or no interaction with other human beings.

But, when it comes to service positions, the line should be drawn.

Of course, not all people are as crass as I am.  The folks at our table exuded great sympathy when they thought she was born with the inability to speak clearly and distinctly.

It’s not much different than people who obtain piercings or inserts in their ear lobe to make them look like gymnastics rings.

It’s your body to do with what you want but, there are consequences to ones actions.  And those consequences include not getting a job because your extracurricular activities far outweigh you professional ones.

That’s a free tip from a guy with his tongue intact.