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 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.