More Big Words

As many guys do when successfully completing a special task, they raise their hands in the air and demand, “High five!”

I’m not saying this is an exclusive activity to men but, being a man and living the life, I know about men better than I do about other sexes and sexual orientations.

We just finished planting fence posts into the freshly mixed cement, which was poured in perfectly spaced holes.  A few minutes passed and, during the inspection, someone shouted, “High five!”

The three of us gathered, doffed our caps with our left hands, and slapped the other hands with our right.

A small smile – more than a grin – simultaneously appeared on all three faces.  And all was good.  We instantly realized we were looking at another job well done.

We worked as a team, which some professional sports organizations often fail to do.  I also dare say we all would stand for the National Anthem if it was played.  But I digress.

Reflecting on that special moment in guy-hood, I began thinking about something I had heard in elementary school.  It was unnerving at thee time, and still induces ‘the willies’ in me when it dwell on it.

If you guessed polydactylism or hyperdactylism, you win!  If you just shook your head in awe, it was worth it for me to use such big words.  I occasionally slip big words such as “exsanguination” and “ablation” into my blogs, but rarely terms that conjure up something akin to cooties.

Polydactylism is when a cat, or a person, is born with six fingers or toes.  Hyperdactylism is when these people have six fingers on more than one had, or more than six toes on each foot.

Here’s the scoop.  Evidently this condition is not as uncommon as you would think.  This is a genetic condition that appears in art works in ancient Mesopotamia and Jordan, and in a Middle Ages painting of Adam and Eve, which depicts Adam with six fingers on his left hand.

I don’t recall seeing these additional digits in art references in school or museums, but I now need to make a return trip to some of these repositories of culture.

In any case, I needed to satisfy my curiosity about how many currently living people are subjects of polydactylism.

My extensive research – no thanks necessary – revealed a fairly sizeable list of prominent people, although I had never heard of most.

Gemma Arterton, an actress who appeared in a James Bond movie had an extra finger on each hand; Theodore Roosevelt “Hound Dog” Taylor, a blues guitarist, had six fingers on his left hand; a West Indies Cricketer, Garfield Sobers, was born with extra fingers on both hands; and Antonio Alfonseca, a baseball pitcher who floated among several professional teams during his career, was born with six fingers and was very proud of it.

I told you these folks were not big names that would evoke an, “Oh, my!” from most dedicated readers.

But I also discovered that two women, Halle Berry and Oprah Winfrey are both listed among famous people with extra fingers and/or toes.

So if you saw Antonio Alfonseca at a ballpark, and he just struck out the third man in the inning, would you yell, “High six!”?

I’m just saying…

Random Thoughts V

Once again I find myself asking questions, most of which are rhetorical.  Still, they need airing so that you, the reader, can suffer my pain in seeking answers and clarification on a wide variety of topics.

Please manufacture a martini for yourself and read on.

• Does the Snowzilla Storm of 2017 mean we’re back to global cooling?
• Why do I always need to call when trying to accomplish anything on-line?
• I get up in the morning and just start the car to let it idle in the driveway since gas is so cheap.
• My sainted wife and I are the last two on the planet without tattoos.
• Our house is one of seven on The Eastern Shore without a meth lab.
• I was delighted Tom Brady is not playing in Superbowl L.
• Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton.  Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton.
• Airfares rose due to fuel prices; they are not dropping with lower prices, though.
• The guy who invented the portable basketball hoop is going to Hell.
• My neighbors with a portable basketball hoop are going to join him.
• Does every car and truck in America need mufflers?
• Are there really any recipes for tripe? 
• Why wasn’t Lois Lerner prosecuted?
• Hillary Clinton should be her cellmate.
• What part of “Stay off the roads” do those driving retards have trouble with?
• Is anyone other than I annoyed by those goofy Progressive Insurance commercials?
• All those “Will work for food” bums, won’t.
• Why does the Greenbackville Fire Dept. have fund raisers?  There is no staff and they don’t respond to calls.
• There are plenty of jobs on The Shore.  They merely require a desire to work.
• Making $15 and hour for flipping burgers is plain stupid.  Get a life and an education if you want more money.
• Pocomoke, Maryland, has an Indian tribe; why not a casino, too?
• You must pass a drug test to work for WalMart.  You don’t have to be smart or ambitious, though.
• There seem to be enough Syrians in America.  Why not send more to Germany?
• I like Sarah Palin more than Joe Biden.
• If Hillary goes to prison, can Bill still date?
• Michael Bloomberg needs medication.
• Spike Lee and Jada Pinkett Smith are whiners who need publicity.
• DC guvment employees are so incompetent they mis-measured the snow.  Yes, they screwed up using a ruler.
• Where are all those leisure suits?
• I am now enjoying flavored water.  Flavored with bourbon, that is.
• Mike Lindell, the inventor of the My Pillow, deserves the Nobel Prize.
• Smokey the Cat is smarter than LuLinda at the Social Security office.
• EasternShoreFishAndGame.com needs a blimp.  Anyone know a blimp driver?
• OnStar sucks.
• I just drove the fastest car in the world; it was a rental.
• My high school reunion should be held in either a state prison or rehab center.

Thanks for sticking in there.  Come back next week for more free entertainment.

He-She-He Huh?

Welcome to a new era in history.  Yes, you are a party to great moments in recorded time of which you can tell your grandkids you witnessed with pride.

Indeed, things are changing in this world, and not the least are ways to create inroads to other ideas and tolerance connected therewith.

If you guessed I am referring to transgender policies, you are correct.  A gold star for you.

So it was with immense pride that I read even carved-in-stone institutions in America are thankfully changing their archaic tunes.

National Geographic Magazine, the yellow-faced soft publication that was delivered to countless homes for decades, just made a statement to the entire world.

NatGeo used to bring far away places and previously unknown lands and cultures to subscriber’s living rooms, each month.

I recall reading about Jacques Cousteau exploring the depths of the world’s oceans, and the latest dinosaur bones being unearthed long ways away.  Foreign ancient tribes, as well as European cultures and traditions, also dotted the glossy pages of text and superb photos germane to the subject at hand.

The really good news, however, is that NatGeo is featuring a nine-year old transgender – uh – kid dressed as a girl.  He, she, or he-she?  “It” is most appropriate.

This exciting breakthrough captured my attention because I couldn’t believe America’s constant was going to stoop to the lows of Weekly World News sensationalism.  Exploitation of such behavior belongs in a carnival side show, not a revered publication.

A cover shot of this genius issue features a boy dressed as a girl, lounging across its declaration that this he-she is part of the “gender revolution.”

I was agog to see how this was as important to me, and how it was more important than Kenya’s Bantu tribes and the Great Pyramids of Giza.

Here we have a boy-child dressing as a girl-child.  Normally we would call that Halloween.  Older versions of that same theme would be called a frat party.  But now, we have boy-child that wants to be a girl.  Today, that is.

Of course, the elite and open-minded among us feel this behavior is avant guard.  On the other hand, to the remainder of sane Americans, this is just plain freaky.

For the record, a child cannot drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, enlist in the military, drive a motor vehicle, use a credit card, gamble, sit on a jury, get a job, quit school, marry, or possess a handgun, because of legal restrictions.

In other words, there are certain things these young pukes cannot involve themselves because they simply lack the mental capacity.  Even a great majority of the adult population should be restricted to most of the above activities; unfortunately, their age is equated with their mental capacity, and it shouldn’t be.

Nine-year old transgendered youth do not have the mental capacity to make a decision about their sex anymore than which Smith & Wesson handgun to buy.

Unfortunately, mothers and fathers have learned to parent from television, and clearly do not know how to inflect society’s norms to their progeny. 

Perhaps NatGeo’s topic next month should be sexual differences in public restrooms.  I’m just saying.

Losers

Winding down is the 2016 football season.  While you read this, please keep in mind that I am not a team owner, nor do I receive any financial gain from any team, winning or losing.

This year, like most, began with “my team” winning the first couple of games of the season.  It looked promising for me to perhaps watch the Super Bowl.

I have been a minor fan of this particular team since I was a small child.  Television was rudimentary at that time, and most of the game action for me was obtained via the radio.

On Sunday afternoons, I would tote around a General Electric transistor radio I got as a First Communion gift.  I listened intently as the announcers went through their color commentary, painting a comprehensive picture of players interacting with the ball and one another.

They would add details about visibility due to snow, rain, or sunshine, as well as particulars concerning the comely cheerleaders.

And each year, I expected Santa might bring me an official jersey from my favorite football team.  He never did.

You see, way back when, there were a total of twelve teams.  Today there are thirty-two.

In actuality, genuine football team jerseys were not available for sale to the public.  Every so often, a player would donate his jersey to a charity for a raffle or auction; otherwise, they were only available by theft.

As the number of teams grew, so did fan pride.  Eventually, the National Football League realized it could make even more money if they sold “licensed” paraphernalia to the masses.  It worked.

Because every entity needed to get their fair share of this marketing bonanza, the prices became increasingly expensive.  Today, a genuine NFL jersey easily sells for over $120.  If you have your name included on the reverse, that number approaches $300!

As yet, I do not own a team jersey to support “my team,” or any other.  I actually have plenty other uses for those stacks of extra hundred-dollar bills in my sock drawer than giving it to the NFL.

That being said, I abandoned “my team” back in October when they lost a game they should have won.  It happens nearly every year.

This season they did so-so but needed to win a Sunday night game to make the playoffs as a wildcard team.  They didn’t.  They didn’t because they are not very good and deserve to lose.

Now the excuses can begin.  Too many players were on the injury list, too many missed field goals, not exceptional in the red-zone, my dog ate my homework, etc.

In actuality, they fumbled too often, threw too many interceptions, had awful pass protection, and play poorly as a team.

In essence, they would be better off if they sold all the uniforms and bought tickets for a cruise.  That would prevent another season of mediocre performance on the field, and disappointments for its other fans. 

That being said, it is a good thing I never got my New York Giants jersey because I am not embarrassed to wear it, although they have no more season left this year – as in most seasons.

Santa is smarter than you think.

Twisting the Night Away

What a great world in which we live!  Last week I had my butt parked in my recliner desperately

hoping for a break in the weather so that I could exercise.

I walk pretty regularly, and since my house is pretty small, I must do most of my walking around town.  In doing so, I get to meet neighbors, get local news, and snoop on whose lawn needs mowing.

But walking in the rain is much more miserable than Gene Kelley would lead you to believe.  Period.

So it was with great interest I watched seven svelte exercisers, on my high-definition television, swivel their way to unbelievable fitness in thirty seconds.

It seems as though another anonymous entrepreneur created a new miracle contraption to help the residents of Planet Earth effectively lose weight, and smile while doing so.

Amazingly, this wonder device is a plastic board that is bulged in the center.  The bulge gets placed on the floor.  You step on the edges thereby creating a swivel pivot point.  This is when you move your arms to mimic the ‘60’s dance craze, The Twist.

Although I rarely watch Dancing With the Stars, I did see it once.  My sainted wife used copious amounts of duct tape to secure my arms, legs, and mouth, in my favorite recliner, facing the TV.  Where was the water-boarding when I needed it?  But I digress.

I was ten-years old, or so, when Ernest Evans – er – Chubby Checker recorded The Twist, thereby unfurling a craze like few others.  This is one dance I at which I actually excelled.

Evidently, the person who invented this swivel exerciser is a geezer who thought a new generation of dancers needed to experience the same fun he did nearly 60-years ago.

I let my fingers do the walking through the internet to order one of these miracle boards.

It arrived last Saturday.  I unwrapped it like a tot on Christmas morn.  Mine was blue and ready to go to work.

With the distended side floor-ward, I cautiously steadied myself with the benefit of a chair.  I likely burned 78 calories attempting to step aboard this board without dislocating my back.

Eventually I stood up with Smokey the cat eyeballing me with pity.  When it was clear I wasn’t going fall and split my skull open, he left to resume his nap.

Trying to recall Chubby’s dance steps, I realized it had nothing to do with moving your feet – only your arms.

Moving my upper limbs in a fashion akin to a washing machine agitator; I actually made this death trap move.  I was now swiveling. 

I had carefully placed several bath towels around me before I began to soak up those calories that would melt away; come to fund out, they weren’t needed.

After about 45-seconds I lifted my t-shirt to check on my abs.  They didn’t appear any tighter.  It took me a few more seconds to realize I may have been sold a bill of goods.

All was not lost, though.  I conveniently placed this swivel board on the dining room table.  It now serves as a lazy Susan.