Blind Belief

Our celebration of the birth of our Lord, Jesus Christ, is barely over for this year.  People are now focused on a personal grand New Year’s Eve festival after all the negativity spewed by the buttinskis. 

Buttinskis are those people without lives of their own.  As such, they become involved in yours to fill that void left by all their hatred, betwixt and between their egotistical superiority.

Allow me to explain.

For several months we have heard their relentless cries about “freedom FROM religion,” Christian’s faith of an unseen God, and our simple-minded disbelief in a “science-proven” debacle called “Climate Change.”

The buttinskis claim we are stupid because renowned scientists and recently-graduated college pukes say our planet is quickly going to burn up because of “global warming,” or freeze solid because of “global cooling,” also known as climate change.

The bottom line is that they are certain that something is happening, it is the fault of humans, and we can fix it with lots of money.

Don’t you feel stupid now?  Just a few thousand dollars more in tax money would cure all our problems, although I’m not sure how.

In any case, we Christians are the ignorant ones because we believe that a baby was born to the Blessed Virgin Mary.  This was the beginning of Christianity.  Amen.

But they wonder how Christians can blindly believe in the Son Man, God, a virgin birth, and countless trials and tribulations, all documented in the Holy Bible.

Oddly enough, those same buttinskis blindly believe in something human beings have been documenting for ages called “weather.”  The difference is that when it gets hot, they call it global warming, with icebergs melting thereby causing global flooding; when it is really cold, they term that as global cooling – a weather system that freezes water, creating ice and killing pesky summer bugs.  When the weather is nice, it is referred to as an aberration.

Of course their blind belief is sensible because numerous scientists deemed their cause, genuine.

On the other hand, our belief is abnormal, although religious scholars and archeologists can point to Christianity being authentic with hard evidence.  Alas.

To prove you are not only a Christian nut job, buttinskis quickly point to Earth-saving techniques that require little, if any, sacrifice.  Sacrifice such as recycling is simple and easy.

It seems as though this year’s gift wrapping paper – the stuff that covered the Christmas, Chanukah, or Kwanzaa, gifts – should have been recyclable.  Yep, December 25^th is the day those buttinskis began chastising anew for the upcoming year of unyielding badgering.

Early Christian Uber

So it is with this in mind that my New Year’s resolution for 2019 is that I’m going to absolutely ignore their whining about anything and everything not ecological-based.

Perhaps we will get lucky and those melting icebergs will create floodwaters to carry the buttinskis into oblivion.  Keep your fingers crossed.  And Happy New Year!

      Easternshorefishandgame.com Nerve Center

If It Moves, Tax It!

It was many years ago when my Father died, but he was always quick to point out what was not necessarily obvious to the rest of the world.

He may have had a talent for reading people, or just a gift of seeing the future.  Nonetheless, he wound up being very prophetic with his words.

A daily newspaper reader, he would become irate over the stories detailing the politicians’ relentless challenge to see how much money they could extract from society.

We grew up in upstate New York, where the local pols would be just as content growing a third arm to better maneuver that third hand into your wallet pocket.

In any case, during one festive morning, Dad finished reading a story and, after lowering the newspaper to achieve better kitchen acoustics, blurted out, “Someday they’re going to charge you for air and water!”

Alas, he was correct.

Just before his passing a tire on his car needed air.  A stop at the service station revealed his prediction had come true; on that day he was going to buy air.

Livid, and rightly so, the world had crested the hill of “free,” and began its descent into paid nearly everything.

Suddenly, tap water – the stuff I used to during from a filthy garden hose – was no longer safe.  For some reason, that clear liquid spewing from the kitchen faucet somehow became tainted.  It doesn’t matter it was, and is, treated with a variety of chemicals, the water may be unsafe for human consumption.

Not long after the costly air experience, Dad came across a clear plastic bottle my sister was toting around.  It was water.

My Proud Dad

My Great Depression Era-raised Dad gave it to her with both barrels.  He thoughtfully touched upon her waste of hard-earned money on something you could fetch from the kitchen, bathroom, or garden hose, loudly enough for all to hear with only one good lecture.

It didn’t matter to my sister or me, but it made an impression on the dog.  There would be no more drinking out of the toilet for her.

Soon there would be trashcans full of plastic water bottles.  And although this health scam proliferated wholesale, it quickly became the bane of the environmental revolution.  Yes, the same folks who want to keep plastic bags out of the landfills yet encourage the use of plastic baby diapers that get thrown into those same landfills.

The target of this fad changed from drinking healthy water to being Earth-haters who are likely wealthy conservatives focused on destroying the planet.  But I digress.

But it was these special family moments that I recalled when I read about some entrepreneurs from New Zealand.  Their company is called Pure Kiwi Air.  And as you likely have guessed, it sells air.

Yep.  There are no missing letters in that last word in the last sentence in the previous paragraph.  It’s not hair, pair, chair, or fair; the word is AIR.

It seems that New Zealand air is much better and purer for you than French air or Chinese air, or even American air.  And it must be better because we in the United States don’t charge much for air, and maybe not enough.

Unfortunately, you get what you pay for.  You see, a four-can pack of Pure Kiwi Air will set you back a modest $65.  A bargain at twice the price!

Had he been around when texting began he would be furious about being taxed for texting.  That’s the new proposal in The People’s Republic of California.

I have become my Dad, and that’s not a bad thing.

Send in the Substitutes

Guys often watch action movies and place themselves in the lead character of the flick.  The shoot-them-up scenes, chock full of gratuitous violence and mayhem, are a true escape for the average Joe who needs this respite from the driveway shoveling snow.  Speedy car chases and brawls only add to the intrigue, transforming the male brain, totally.

Women do the same thing with those frilly/girly movies – the ones where a comely lassie visits a foreign country immediately after a bad breakup.  While on holiday, she stumbles across the most handsome fellow on the planet.  A romantic whirlwind continues until the time of her sad departure.  Happily the separation is derailed and she spends the remainder of her life in Latvia with her new-found Romeo.  Yeah!

My sainted wife often watches cooking shows to see what we are not having for dinner tonight.  Occasionally I, too, will join her when she espies professional chefs conjuring up special meals made from ingredients only found in Latvia.

Sometimes we don’t have that unique ingredient in the pantry; likewise we can’t locate gecko tails in the supermarket.  It is at this point we wing it.

It may be my imagination, but our homemade replica is probably lacking in flavor because of the void created by the lack of gecko tails, or whatever that secret, special component is.  Alas.

Then there are those times when we feel as though we have the same cranial matter as Gordon Ramsey, Bobby Flay, and Anne Burrell.  So we try.  Pretend is actually a better word to describe our often failed efforts - just as we did a few weeks ago. 

We found a beautiful prime rib roast on sale and quickly snatched it up.  We’ve made rib roasts before, and most all turned out beautifully.  But for some reason we decided to defer to the professionals.

A thorough search of a food-oriented website (no, I’m not going to tell you it was the Food Network,) brought to a number of mouth-watering recipes for prime rib roasts.

We selected one from Anne Burrell.  Following it to the letter, although cooking time seemed a bit long, we wound up with a heap of ashes that closely resembled a primitive tribe’s sacrifice to the gods.

We both gnawed through a modest portion until we got cramps in our jaws from chewing.  Disappointing is not the word I used to describe this fiasco.  But I digress.

Washing this train wreck down with an appropriate wine didn’t improve this epic failure one bit.

Still, we found some humor in all this, only after we exhausted our entire supply of vulgarities directed at that no name website and Anne Burrell, alike.

We recalled a time a few years back when we were poor as dirt and a neighbor unexpectedly stopped by at dinner time.

This is one of those lemons into lemonade moments.

My sainted wife took out some hot dogs and pack of crescent rolls – the ones that come in a refrigerated tube.

She wrapped the franks like they were inside little pastry sleeping bags.  After about a half-hour, we served them on the patio with some cold, adult beverages.

They were an absolute hit that are still talked bout today.

Perhaps we don’t have that gifted chef’s palate, maybe we really needed those magical ingredients to make those TV meals special, or possibly we were simply trying too hard.

We all loved those hot dogs and still do.  Although I’ll buy gecko tails if I ever find them in the grocery store outside of Latvia.

Blinded By the Lights

It happens every year and is both exciting and painful for me and countless others.

If you guessed The Oscars, you’re right.  But the first paragraph also applies to Christmas.

I love Christmas and always have.  I have expectations that are well beyond those of mortal humans.  The tree must be perfect, tablecloths pressed, poinsettias bright red or white, and illumination devices operational.

For Canadians, illumination devices are Christmas lights.

I’m certain my family tree has Rhesus monkeys somewhere therein because I simply adore shiny things and colorful lights.

Christmas is that special time of year when I can decorate my house to closely resemble Liberace on acid.

Clearly not enough lights, but a good start

In fact, a few years ago, a stick-in-the-mud used to reside across the street from me.  It was immediately after Thanksgiving Day when I began decorating our house, both inside and out.

After hours of work, I took a moment to step back and admire my efforts.  This prude ambled across the road, and while standing beside me uttered the words, “Sometimes less is more.”

Of course she was wrong.  She was not making my mortgage payments, and thus had little say as to how, and with what, I adorned my humble abode.  Amen.

I ignored her and silently walked away to add even more twinkling lights and candy canes and a plastic Santa.

This year, though, I needed more lights for my exterior illumination effort.  I purchased a modest several sets of lights that appear to be old-fashioned C6 bulb fixtures, but have innerds that contain modern LED bulbs.

According to the package, LED bulbs are supposed to last 10,000 hours – the equivalent of standing in line at the grocery store to purchase a box of macaroni.

After arriving home, my sainted wife and I carefully removed these new treasures from their packages.  We didn’t say much to each other because we were carefully listening for the phone to ring.

I was expecting a call from Mrs. Trump for decorating hints, alas, she didn’t phone.  But I digress.

In any case, we dutifully plugged these leads in to ensure they were in fine working order; they were.

Out came the folding ladder, eave clips, and extension cords, all to assist with the tasteful application process.

A tape measure helped with keeping this lighting masterpiece centered.

The process went like this: eave clip, light, light, eave clip, light, light, move the ladder.  Repeat.

This procedure continued for nearly 45-minutes.  Then a completed product was unveiled.

There were no smoldering wires or broken shingles, no broken windows or bones, either.  The smell in the air was that of success.

Hours later when darkness fell, we wound our way outdoors to better examine our latest creation.  The ta-das! were deflated by one non-working string of the long-lasting LED light strings.  Yes, the new ones.

Out came the ladder again, along with a flashlight and an attitude.

Neighbors peered through curtained windows to see what the clamor was about.  My sainted wife and I were whispering as though we were on the 18^th hole of the Masters Tournament; I’m not sure why.

After 20-minutes of this surgical-like examination, we decided to opt for a decades-old set of icicle lights as a replacement.

Oddly enough, the icicle lights worked – both before and after they were hung on the house.

We celebrated with smiles and a tender hug.  And now we finally can irritate the neighbors with aplomb.

Not a Wom

Just this morning, without the idea of becoming amazed, I read my ritual morning newspaper.

My sainted wife was opposite me furiously typing away at the computer attempting to pay our bills online and on-time.

Smokey was high above on his cat condo watching the normal daily activities.

Suddenly I espied an actual newsworthy story causing me to exhort a few words of disbelief that cannot be replicated here.

It seems as though not all scientific grant money is frittered away for any apparently inane reason.

Wouldn’t you know this daily rag published a hard-hitting story about wombats.  This caused me to investigate more about these little creatures.

In all honesty, wombats are neither bats nor woms.  They are 3½ foot long marsupials that are native to Australia. I’m certain they were named by some inebriated Aussie who slurred his or her words.

Marsupials are animals that give birth live and carry their young around in pouches.  They are mammals – unlike seahorses that also carry their young around in pouches.  But you should have learned that in elementary school.

Kangaroos, opossums, and Tasmanian devils, are all marsupials.

In any case, there is a postdoctoral fellow at Georgia Tech who has dedicated her “career to studying, in intricate detail, the biomechanics of how animals poop and pee.”

Just in case you had to answer the phone or listen to your nagging spouse while attempting to read the last paragraph, I’ll repeat it for you.

There is a postdoctoral fellow at Georgia Tech who has dedicated her “career to studying, in intricate detail, the biomechanics of how animals poop and pee.”

Yep.

This article goes on to explain about the wombat being a cousin of the koalas, also marsupials.  They further burrow tunnels creating hazardous conditions for livestock that can easily break legs.

Wombat

Wombats are a food source for Aboriginals, weighing on at about 40 pounds.  It would appear that being short, fat, with small tails and big noses, and small ears, a wombat could easily be mistaken for a kid I knew in high school named Joe Nusbaum.  But I digress.

Still, the gist of this story is just around the corner.

Wombats, according to this Georgia Tech fellow, poop – drum roll, please – little cubes.

Yes, wombat poop is easily identifiable by their dice-like bowel movements.

They produce up to 100 cubes of poop every night!

Apparently they spread this square poop about the outside of their burrows to serve as a ‘keep out’ sign.

There’s much more to this science-oriented article than adolescent humor.

Of course, I could find nothing of that sort.  I could only imagine perfectly stackable poop.

And now you can win that bar bet about which animal poops cubes.  You’re welcome.

The True History of Thanksgiving Day

In the spirit of the season in general, Thanksgiving Day in particular, I thought I’d take some time to present an offering that will likely wind its way through generations.

Much as “The Night Before Christmas” has become a classic, I fully expect my masterpiece to be read far and wide each and every Thanksgiving Day.

It was 1492 when Christopher Columbus stumbled upon the shore of a land mass he thought he was India.  Alas, it wasn’t.  Still, because Mr. Columbus thought his trans-oceanic voyage was successful he called the inhabitants of this land “Indians.”

The India he was seeking was a land described as full of merchants, commerce, textiles, and spices.  Where he was standing was anything but.  However, the natives he met were exotic in appearance and spoke a foreign language, leading to the belief he has succeeded in opening up an ocean trade route.

This newly-discovered land was correctly identified as a land mass between the Old World – Europe – and Columbus’ mistaken India, by Amerigo Vespucci, another Italian explorer and cartographer.

Of little value for lucrative trade, this land that included North America, Central America, and South America, was named for Mr. Vespucci, hence the name America.

Largely forgotten – even intentionally avoided as a detour to India – America was home to Paleo-Indians who migrated from Siberia to North America.

In the 16^th century, to escape religious oppression, European Colonists fled their homes to travel and migrate in America during a period called English Reformation.

The ocean voyage took brutal months at sea with limited food, water, and provisions.  There was no air conditioning on the summer trips, very little heat on the winter voyages.

These determined travelers were called Pilgrims because of their pilgrimage to be able to find peace for practicing their religion, Puritanism.

Upon arrival, the Pilgrims were met by the settlers from Siberia.  Both groups were exact opposites of each other; the Siberian Indians were a crude people who resided in animal skin tents, while the Pilgrims were accustomed to living in thatched roof houses.

In an act of pity, the Indians helped the Pilgrims with their needs of modest shelter, and food that was unique to the Europeans.

Scallops, fish, deer, and other meats were provided, along with corn, and breads for substance.

The Pilgrims brought potatoes and other root vegetables to grow, all of which was shared with their new friends.  This initial gathering was loosely termed “thanksgiving.”

Since their arrival in the day set aside for giving thanks was celebrated as a way to thank God for his help in all aspects of growing and harvesting and the ability to freely exercise their right to religion.

Unfortunately, Democrats hijacked the idea of religious settlers living together with Indians, and the games began.

It started when some nut decided that Indians should not be called Indians.  The word offended their goofy heads and a new term – Native American – would henceforth be used to describe Serbian Indians living in America.

It didn’t matter that Native American is also used to describe ANYONE born in America.  I am a Native American, although I am from Polish heritage, for instance.  But I digress.

This brain trust was well on their way to modifying history with this small act of semantics.

Mushy brained kids in school learned that Columbus did not discover America, the Indians did.  However, they can’t be called Indians.

And according to Liberals, Mr. Columbus brought the white man’s diseases in order to kill the Indians who aren’t Indians rather, Native Americans.

In order to distract the populace from all this, President Ronald Reagan officially created football, signing an executive order to form the Green Bay Packers, and the Detroit Lions.  This E.O. stated the Lions must, as a tradition, lose every year in the game played on Thanksgiving Day.

They also learned in indoctrination camp, er, school, that once the religious settlers made America their home, they rounded up the Native Americans – not me, but other Native Americans – and put these fun-loving, peaceful inhabitants on reservations.  These reservations were alleged to closely resemble concentration camps, according to college professors.

These concentration camps were eventually transformed into cigarette hubs and casinos.

It wasn’t long after all Native Americans – not me included – were killed or banished to concentration camps that all the good stuff the Puritans stole from the Native Americans began to be marketed to Japan in exchange for Datsuns and Toyotas.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed a proclamation on October 31, 1939, making Thanksgiving Day an official, nationally celebrated holiday to commemorate the pilfering of all natural things in America from the Native Americans.

It is now the law in 38-states that turkey must be served on Thanksgiving Day; even vegetarians are forced to consume turkey and dressing.  And pumpkin pies that no one eats were added through an amendment under President Trump just to irritate Nancy Pelosi and Maxine Waters.

So it is with great pleasure that I wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving Day.  Except for Maxine Waters and the Florida election officials, that is.

Go Home

Today begins back in 1973.  I was watching the morning news and thought back to the days of yore when I was in college and decided I wanted to attend an Emerson, Lake and Palmer, concert.

I was residing in upstate New York, at the time, near a music venue called Saratoga Performing Arts Center, abbreviated SPAC.

It was a fashionable indoor/outdoor arena surrounded by a sloping hill.  This arrangement allowed one to purchase indoor seats in case of inclement weather, and still be able to sit on the lawn with a blanket and snacks during nicer evenings.

The ELP tickets were on sale at the SPAC ticket box where people camped out to be certain to simply purchase some.

I don’t remember SPAC’s capacity, but the local FM radio stations promised this concert would be a sell-out.

Although working my way through college with two jobs while attending school, a friend who also had a desire to see ELP offered to buy me a ticket in my absence.

Evidently the once-orderly crowd became antsy just about time the ticket office opened resulting in a melee, of sorts.

I received this second-hand account via my ticket buddy, who was fortunate enough to acquire enough for himself, me, and others in his special circle.

It seems as though anxious people who didn’t want to wait their turn for ELP tickets cut in line in front of the polite would-be concert goers in a selfish move.

Yes, this is the first thing I thought of when I heard about the equally selfish 7,000 louts who are making their way from Central America to the United States.

This group of malcontents is thumbing their noses at Americans and American law because this is what they want.  Period.

Standing in line to get asylum in America is for the stupid; cutting in line shows they have muscle and pride.

Yea!  More people who can't obey the law!

And nitwits around our country are crying crocodile tears for these gate-crashers who are already refusing to follow the rules of the greatest country on Earth.  We need fewer of them, not more.

Honest, hard-working, skilled, American residents are now finding themselves at odds with Democrats, whose one note song of racism is staining the fabric of our nation.

My ELP ticket-buying pal didn’t want excuses; he wanted order and justice.  That’s something we should all want now at the southern border.

Enough with the trespassing of the United States of America.  If you can’t follow the rules, go home.

Geographical Oddity

While attending school as a small child I recall making maps and doing research about varying United States areas, and foreign countries, alike.  Those times were called geography class.

Somehow, the maps and our study meshed neatly with some of our history and language classes, making for a more thorough lesson.

Living on The Eastern Shore presents a special kind of geography lesson in which likely few people ever participated.

The words “The Shore” are used by so many people to mean so many different things, and therein lies the problem.

New Jersey, Delaware, the People’s Republic of Maryland, and Virginia all have areas called The Shore.

Reading local newspapers and books, one would think that only Maryland possessed The Shore.  It doesn’t.

To make things more concise, people will add terms such as “Upper Shore” and “Lower Shore”.  Of course, that Maryland joint doesn’t recognize Virginia as even touching water.

So when Marylanders say Upper Shore, they really mean Maryland closest to Delaware; when they say Lower Shore, they are referring to Maryland near the Georgia border.

You must understand that the Atlantic Ocean barely touches Maryland’s eastern shore because of a strip of land called Assateague.  Assateague is a barrier island – 37-miles long.  The northern two-thirds are in Maryland, while the other one third is in Virginia territory.  That is, unless you query Marylanders who believe it is all in Maryland.

Until the 1933, this was one solid island.  Then, a violent storm cut a space through this fragile land creating two parts.

The United States government eventually decided it could better manage the land and created the Assateague National Wildlife Refuge.  Since this barrier island protects a Virginia island named Chincoteague, the Virginia portion is often referred to as the Chincoteague Wildlife Refuge, too.

Here comes the good part.

Virginia’s portion of The Shore forms the back side of the Chesapeake Bay.  This bay is also thought of as belonging to Maryland; only a portion of it is on Maryland territory. 

When you hear about blue crabs from Maryland, it should be understood they don’t often use navigational aids to maneuver around.  Oddly enough they don’t know if they’re swimming or residing in Maryland or Virginia.

For Marylander Use

Moving south on a map from Virginia’s Eastern Shore will take you to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, abbreviated CBBT.

The CBBT consists of a series of bridges and tunnels completing the 17-mile span across the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay – the Virginia portion that Maryland thinks it owns.

It lands on a spot of terra firma between Norfolk and Virginia Beach, Virginia.  This land practically borders on the North Carolina state line.

These cities are populated with military personnel, marine services, and copious businesses.  As such, major television stations are based there.  In fact, all the television stations are based there.

WTKR, WAVY, WTVZ, WHRO, and WPXV, are all major players in the Virginia Beach area, which is roughly 70-miles from where I live on The Shore (the Virginia part of The Shore).

Their weather broadcasts speak of The Peninsula.  I’m not sure of the existence of another peninsula other than the Virginia portion of The Shore (not the Maryland side).

I’ve written to the weather clowns – er, meteorologists – about this, politely asking to which peninsula they are referring, to no avail.  Perhaps reading is not a requirement for a meteorologist, or maybe they are just plain uninformed about the definition of a peninsula.

To sum all this up, high-tax, liberty-restricting Maryland is not the sole owner of the Chesapeake Bay or the only state that abuts the Atlantic Ocean.

Virginia actually separates the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, and Maryland from North Carolina.

Virginia Beach meteorologists have discovered a mystery peninsula somewhere near the Chesapeake Bay.

Don’t you wish you paid closer attention or smoked less weed in elementary school? 

Important Dinner

Many, many years ago, when I was in college, a bunch of us would occasionally spend time in the cafeteria attempting to be philosophical.

This is where I must mention that I am old – old enough to remember when Michael Jackson was a black man.

Our little group usually became extra thoughtful after imbibing in legal alcohol, and possibly illegal pharmaceuticals.

Those conversations would vary from what the best car was, to who was the greatest band.  Names such as Camaro and Led Zeppelin arose often, usually punctuated by a round of thumbs-up.

One of these important round-table gatherings posed the question: Who would you most like to have dinner with?

I clearly recall a couple of baffled looks, and I’m certain I actually witnessed smoke arising from at least one participant’s searching mind.

I can’t remember what the others said in response to this query, but I definitely said Jesus.  Jesus was quite a historic figure upon which the Bible is based and has been worshipped for millennia.

I have lots of questions and accolades I would love to present to Him.  It would appear as though I must bide my time until I reach Heaven’s Gate to proceed with any further contact outside of praying.

Since my graduation many fantastic occurrences have materialized.  Cell phones, artificial medical organs, HDTV, and the bankruptcy of Sears Roebuck, are just a few things that have improved life.

In fact, almost daily, I find myself amazed about where we are in the current era of mankind.  Road networks, internet infrastructure, safe food, potable water, along with improved medicines, keep me in awe.

One additional person, although well after my college years that would fit my dinner guest list, is President Ronald Reagan.  I was pleasantly surprised by his political prowess, business sense, and rapier-like wit, throughout his eight-years in office.

Once again, as with Jesus, I would ask for stories and comments and thoughts on today’s society, and the state of the world as a whole.

Stops annoying ads

So it was with interest that while I watching television the other day, that is saw a commercial from some insurance company featuring a stupid talking box.

Almost immediately thereafter ran another inane commercial from a different insurance company featuring some unfunny character named “Flo.”

Although I’m not, nor have I even been, associated with advertising or Madison Avenue, I can tell you that both those companies would do well to save their advertising budget and buy adult beverages instead.

It didn’t take me long to find the “mute” button on my TV remote.

And so it goes as I callus my thumb to hush both Flo and the goofy talking box.

Once again I feel as though I must update my dinner list.  This time I’d like to incorporate the CEOs of these corporations, although I have only two questions for each of these executives.

“Do you really think your television commercials are entertaining?”

“Where are you going to look for a new job?”

I’m just saying…

Still Tired

It’s Monday morning, October 22, 2018, and I’m attempting to read through this seriously Left-leaning fish wrapping, AKA: USA Today, from last week.

Therein is a brief article titled, “1 in 88 quadrillion: So there’s a chance…”

That article is all about the current excitement generated by the big bucks lottery games, namely Powerball and Mega Millions.

Because Americans have become dumber, no one has been able to pick a handful of numbers to match those drawn on Tuesday and Friday nights for the Mega Millions game, Wednesday and Saturday nights are reserved for the Powerball game.

Last Friday night’s Mega Millions drawing left the grand jackpot of $900,000,000, lying on the table; no one correctly selected all the numbers.  The next jackpot is over $1,600,000,000.

A small representative amount of money

Even better, the next Powerball drawing is expected to have a jackpot worth nearly $500,000,000.

These cash pots are so large because there are so many numbers from which to select thereby making a winning pick’s odds astronomical.  Every drawing that goes un-won rolls over to the next drawing.

Of course the mere size of these jackpots prompted the USA Today rag – er, esteemed newspaper – to write the same ol’ tired facts in a new story.

USA Today’s take is the fact that if you are fortunate enough to win one of these games, perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to win both.  Winning both, without others, would garner you well over two billion dollars; that’s $2,100,000,000.

Of course if you’re lucky enough to win both of those games of chance, you might also receive a phone call from the Vatican naming you the next Pope.

But this lame USA Today article uses the familiar comparisons to enormous odds, such as being “258 times more likely to be struck by lightning this year” than winning one of these lotteries.  The news writer also gravitates to the astronomical odds of 1 in 3,748,067, of being killed by a shark.

However, if you’re like me, the chances of both a lightning strike and shark assassination drop to zero because I’m not that stupid to stand outside wielding a metal flag pole during a thunder storm, and I don’t swim in the ocean.  If a shark can make its way into my toilet, I’ll have another story to write.

Elsewhere, television news programs are scouring the streets asking the “average” citizen about their plans these folks have for any winnings.

Paying off the house, buying a anew car, putting money away for their kids’ college education, and donating to charity, top out the worst of the worst.

There is so much money on the table that you could spend a $1 a second for over forty-years and not have spent the entire jackpot of the Mega Millions prize.  Just for your information, that’s over $106,400 per day for four decades.

The kicker in this newspaper story is contained in one of its final paragraphs.  President Donald Trump needed to be drawn into this exposé.  “Hitting the jackpot is a tad less likely than having President Donald Trump follow you on Twitter if he selects an account randomly from all accounts (about 1 in 261,000,000 tries), according to Cleveland19.com.”

I now hope President Trump is wagering a few bucks on these jackpots, and I hope he wins.  He could finally begin building his sensible Mexican wall and generate some real drama.

Your Problem, Not Mine

Smokey the Cat used to strut about our property to the Steppenwolf tune, “Born to be Wild.”

Smokey look-alike

He was a feral cat that looked and acted smarter than most Brett Kavanaugh opposers.  Although young, he was smart beyond his age; his learning process has steadily increased throughout the years.

Eight years later Smokey has evolved into an “indoor, only” cat.  Here on The Shore we have all sorts of critters that are dangerous and enjoy eating – eating other tasty critters such as Smokey.

Foxes, coyotes, turkeys, wild dogs, opossums, other cats, deer, and raccoons, readily roam throughout our little town of 150 people, and possibly outnumber our residents.

As a life-long feral cat, that life-long would likely be altered to read: life-short.  Still, this “smart” cat decided to seize upon an opportunity to escape through an ajar screen door, just the other day.

He may be tough enough to take care of himself, but I’d rather not test the waters.

Eventually, my sainted wife – Smokey’s step mother – corralled him without incident, able to return him to the safety of our modest home.

The reason I mention this is because I’d like to take this occasion to reach out to all those from other local towns, as well as those places far, far away.

I can see you are too irresponsible to spay or neuter your animals.  I can also sympathize with your plight of not being able to prevent your animals from breeding because of lofty veterinarian fees.  Further, I respect your desire to surprise your kids or spouse with a fluffy, cuddly puppy or kitten.

But today is the day you need to rethink your pathetic lives.  If you can’t afford a vet bill, you can’t afford a pet.

That cute ball of fluff will eventually grow up to be a drooling, flea-bitten animal that may pee on your carpet and eat your TV remote control.

Now, it’s about time to call out the Arlington County, Virginia, Animal Shelter.

Thirty-years ago, I was in the market for an indoor cat; I visited a Northern Virginia county shelter to adopt one.  After completing the necessary paperwork I was sternly informed my one-bedroom apartment was not a suitable environment for raising a pet.  End of story.

It seems as though it was far more humane to euthanize unwanted animals than place them into small apartments.  Brilliant!

And lastly, if you have an unwanted pet, don’t drive them to our town to let them loose.

You are what I term “trash,” and need to be spayed or neutered yourself. 

Thanks.

Scare Me Once

Roll through my neighborhood this time of year and you will spot not only countless trucks and cars up on cinder blocks, but also tons of Halloween decorations.

Scarecrows, pumpkins, bales of straw and cornstalks, stuffed witches, and the customary chrysanthemums, dot the landscape.  This gives the impression time is nigh for the young ghosts and goblins to traipse about the streets begging for treats on lieu of tricks.

The Eastern Shore capitalizes on this special time of year with wine and cheese festivals, oyster roasts, barbeque chicken dinners, and firehouse fundraisers.

You see, the firehouses on The Shore are primarily staffed by volunteers – a Latin term meaning “good ol’ boys, ONLY!”

Betwixt the final NASCAR races of the season are varying winter prepping activities to include lawn mowing (or grass cutting depending on how rednecky you are), raking leaves, lawn aerating, cleaning gutters, and generally winterizing your homestead.

Outdoor power equipment must be drained of unused gasoline and replaced with a stabilizing juice that will allow your tools to eventually be restarted in the spring.

Boats need attention, too.  Ensuring anti-freeze replaces the precious cooling water from the other three seasons will prevent cracked engine blocks and rupture pipes, a costly mistake that is usually made and learned exactly once.

These annual rituals are minor tasks compared to the expensive repairs needed when they are skipped, whether intentionally or not.

And so the winter work begins.

While I was swapping stabilizing fluid for gas, my mind began wandering to when I was a kid with only one thing on my mind: Trick or Treating.

I grew up in a very cold climate where Halloween costumes were covered by warm parkas and mittens.  Masks were a no-no because they would freeze onto your face resulting in a crying episode when your Mother would attempt to yank it off; it wasn’t nearly as much fun as it sounds.

Neighbors were different then.  The old widows would pass out homemade popcorn balls, or candied apples, or loose change in the amount of 3 or 4 cents.

Not me and the boys

We traditionally scared the neighbors in bands of five, or so, kids.  We weren’t car thieves, or vandals, or a sect of the Hell’s Angels.  We were your paper boys, lawn mowing kids, and children who made a few cents off shoveling your sidewalks and driveways.  Still, we wanted that seasonal loot in the form of candy.

In retrospect, I don’t believe we really fooled anyone of our treaters; they simply played along.  And everyone was happy.

The evening would end with a television movie.  We didn’t have cable or satellite or VCRs.  We had rabbit ears carefully wrapped in aluminum foil that would impress NASA engineers.

Halloween movies were horror flicks such as Frankenstein, The Mummy, Dracula, all very scary to young’uns like us.

A big bowl of popcorn was made and the lights dimmed.  Conveniently, the same ghoul who was on Saturday night’s Creature Feature show hosted these Halloween specials from his usual crypt.

I’m sure my parents rolled their eyes at me.  My sister was four years younger than I, but nine years wiser and wasn’t fooled a bit, although I was terrified.  Terrified!

And just as with Christmas, Santa Claus disappeared from my radar when I realized he wasn’t real.

The aforementioned monsters showed their hands when I discovered the people who they killed in their movies were idiots in need of killing.

Those monsters waddled and took giant, slow, wobbly steps with arms extended.  It was years before I realized I could personally outrun them while blindfolded and hogtied.

Suddenly the scary in the scary movies became humorous fun.  Alas, I still want to go trick or treating rather than raking leaves.

Happy Halloween!