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.