More Punishment

Thanks to the media, I have learned that I am likely the most egregious offender of the environment – ever.

Since I was a toddler, I recall drinking sodas and malteds with the benefit of a straw.  That was a treat in and of itself.  We didn’t use straws at home because they were an unnecessary luxury that cost money.  Rather, we indulged ourselves all five times we ate in restaurants.

To counteract those wasteful indulgences we bought milk, beer, and soft drinks in glass bottles that were dutifully returned to stores for a minimal deposit that was applied to the next purchase of beverages.  We didn’t buy water because our house was fitted with indoor plumbing.  But I digress.

As discussed in a prior story, “progressive” politicians are reinventing the proverbial wheel.  Many states are just discovering bottle deposits, as well as paper bags at the grocery store, and reusable cups and mugs.

Not original thoughts by any stretch of the imagination, these lame “recycled” recycling ideas are soaring with the assistance of mindless politicians who want to be the first county councilman or alderman to be awarded the Noble Prize for stealing ideas.

Not to be outdone, these politicians and environmental nut jobs are desperately trying to be the first in outrageousness.

Driving electric cars is admirable.  Making everyone drive electric cars is plain stupid.  Trips on the Eastern Shore are usually lengthy.  For instance, I drive about 45-miles to pick up prescriptions, and drive another 45-miles home.  That’s 90-miles for all you Canadians.

Currently, most electric cars have a distance of about 100 miles between charges.  Sounds great, if you don’t use petty accessories such as lights, radio, air conditioning, or the heater and defroster; otherwise, it’s a long walk home.  Alas.

In any case, those environmentalists know better than you.  They ardently want to save the planet.  Saved for whom is not necessarily clear, though. 

They insist people are killing the Earth with their wasteful ways, which must stop now.  End of discussion.

Maryland political nitwits unleashed their legislative might on drinking straws, outlawing them, but legalizing mind-altering drugs.  Yea!

Now Florida, the land of sun-fried-brains, is desperately trying to save coral reefs.

Yep, in case you were unaware, the coral reefs are dangerously on the brink of something or other – likely extinction – because you probably have never seen them. This is why some buttinsky wants to “raise awareness” about coral reefs.  Sanctioned punishment is a better description.

The words “raise awareness” are political code for “give me money for research so that I don’t need to get a real job.”

It’s all part of the game of guvment redistribution of wealth.  It’s not as complex as you think.

Take, for example, just what is happening in Miami, Florida.  It seems as though Miami Beach is considering banning sunscreens.

BUT, you’re yelling at the screen, “I thought doctors warned you to generously lather up at the beach to prevent skin cancer?”

You are correct.  Unfortunately, the fickle finger of guvment wealth redistribution is now pointing to that awful, dangerous sunscreen that may be responsible for the wholesale destruction of, well, nothing.  But it could be destroying the coral reefs.  Only a guvment grant and a moratorium on swimming in the ocean will tell.

Hawaii and Key West, Florida, already have bans on sunscreens containing two particular chemicals, notably oxybenzone or octinoxate.

Between no drinking straws and no swimming with certain sunscreens, let’s just close all the beaches.  More punishment.

Thank Heaven for environmentalists and insightful politicians.

Back to School

Some decades ago I lost contact with a cousin who was the luckiest person alive.  He was about 30-years old at the time, married, with no job, and still going to school.

He was able to do this because he married a lovely woman who catered to his ego and worked full-time in order for him to attend school full-time.

It’s not as if he was working on a doctorate, rather he was allergic to work of any kind, and scholastics was a way to fulfill his goal – loaf.  And he was good at it.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get out of the educational system because, unlike my cousin, I wasn’t very good at it.

Learning was one of those things in life that put my nerves on edge.  Three different courses demanded simultaneous research papers, in addition to regular homework and classes.  Thrown in for good measure was my effort to pay for my own education without the help of guvment or a student loan or my parents; that meant part-time jobs, too.

To say my schedule was a bit crowded would be an understatement.  Besides, I didn’t have a sugar mama on which to rely for money, or even dream taxpayers would foot the bill for my schooling.  But I digress.

I thought of this lazy kin when I was mixing dangerous chemicals today.

My ornamental garden beds were flush with early spring weeds, and those weeds needed killing.  I broke out last year’s pump sprayer and a bottle of defoliant concentrate to assist with the weed murders.

Weed assassination device

A defoliant is one of those chemicals that the People’s Republic of California deemed a carcinogen.  For all you Canadians, carcinogens are things that cause cancer.  I’m not sure if the weeds die from cancer or some other malady.  In any case, they had to be eliminated.

Because of the six-month gap since my last use of this chemical and subsequent lack of mixing recall, I turned to the instructions attached to the bottle, since this concentrate required mixing with the appropriate amount of water.

Therein were twelve plastic-coated pages – in both English and Spanish – detailing what sort of weeds and grasses this defoliant would defoliate, and pronto.

On page eight, in itsy-bitsy lettering were the mixing instructions.  Sure, our well water is probably more toxic than most commercial defoliants; nonetheless, I spent $18 on this bottle.

To be fair, enclosed with the bottle of defoliant was a plastic cap that doubled as a measuring cup, likely to preclude your average amateur gardener from using the household measuring cups to meter out poison.  That’s my best guess, anyway.

The measuring paragraphs began with third grade basics.

One tablespoon = three teaspoons

Two tablespoons = one ounce

Five tablespoons + one teaspoon = 1/3 cup

Figuring there was a math quiz at the end of this novelette, I paid especially close attention.

When I reached the 16 tablespoons = one cup portion, I decided to skip over to the next paragraph.

This is where the important information had lain.  In order to make one gallon of weed killing juice, I needed to mix two ounces of poison with a gallon of water.

A quick look back at the previous paragraph indicated I needed to do math.  If two tablespoons = one ounce, four tablespoons = two ounces.

That wasn’t so very hard.  What was hard was comprehending how the company that manufactured this chemical didn’t place a line inside the included measuring cup; the line would indicate the appropriate measurement for the defoliant concentrate.

Perhaps it’s not the chemical that is dangerous.  Maybe it’s the poor math skills of the end-users that make it dangerous.

Maybe I should have called my lucky cousin for the math answer.

I’m just saying.

No, Really

As I wind my way through life, I like to compare my new ventures with old ones already experienced.  And over time I realize just how much times have changed, and maybe not for the better.  Here are two examples.

I recall biking through the sidewalks of town when I was only five-years old.  I didn’t travel far because my legs were small and I had nowhere to actually go.  Sure, a quick trip to the local corner store for an ice cream sandwich or six-ounce bottle of soda was the norm, but those were the big adventures as a young’un.

In due course I progressed and my bike got bigger as I got taller, and the trips got longer.  It wasn’t long before my mini jaunts evolved into twelve mile runs to work.

My bike days were something I desperately wanted to end because now my buddies were driving cars, not riding bikes.  But that was for the reason that they came from more affluent families that could afford to buy their kids cars, and pay for high-priced insurance.

Because of my learned work ethic and money saving gene, I accumulated enough cash to purchase a very used car that was more trouble than biking anywhere.  Unfortunately, my dates weren’t interested in going out on a Schwinn.  Alas.

Being back in the social swing of things, my buddies were learning to play card games. Games such as pinochle, rummy, blackjack, and poker, were popular back then, and the “guys” were not only learning these games, they often decided to invent their own rules.  Of course, those new rules were always biased toward the rule inventors, don’t you know.

Once again, though, because of all the new, creative card game rules – rules that would make Hoyle turn over in his grave – we decided there were other more, civil and honest ways to enjoy Friday and Saturday and holiday evenings.

Thinking back on those biking days, I never thought about using any type of steroid to better enable myself to ride further, faster.  I relied on old fashioned developled muscles to help propel me to my next two-wheeled trip.

So it was with interest that in 2012, American bicyclist Lance Armstrong was stripped of his winnings in various cycling events including the Tour de France.  Armstrong wasn’t the only bike riding guy to be accused of doping – using illegal drugs to obtain an advantage over their competitors – but he was the most infamous, and that ain’t good.

Cyclists and a sundry of other athletes in most competitive events seek an edge to win-at-all-costs.  This is not fair to fellow athletes who do not use illegal and/or questionable products that enhance the athletes’ bodies to outperform non-cheaters.  Faster and further and stronger are the results of doping, which is why those products are illegal in competitive sports.

That being said, I also never thought about using steroids when playing cards with the boys.

This is where I’m stopping writing; I’ll wait for you to catch up in case you need to go back and re-read this essay.

Some fellow named Geir Helgemo, a 49-year old card player from Norway, is the world’s top-ranked bridge player who was just suspended by the World Bridge Federation.  It seems as though, Helgemo was suspended after he tested positive for two banned substances.  No, really.

Whoa!

Now, not being a medical professional – and hardly being able to pronounce some of the medications I’m prescribed – I can’t think of any benefit using performance enhancing drugs Helgemo would receive.  Sure, I realize bridge is a very demanding game, but not quite on the level of slalom skiing or long distance running or Olympic beer drinking.  But I digress.

Once again, I wouldn’t have thought I might have won a few more poker hands with the guys if I used some performance enhancing substances.

But if you readers have a clue, please let me know.  I’m really, really curious.  I’ll pass that information onto Lance and Geir for you.  Thanks.

I’m Dying Over Here

Over the years, I have traveled countless miles by both land and air.  More than 84,000-miles per year were not out of the question.

One of those places I visited was California.  California is a rather large state, and for business reasons, I stayed in San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco.

On both the big screen and television, these cities are portrayed as idyllic, and for the most part, they are.

The exception to that rule is two-fold; the politicians are largely under the influence of psychotropic drugs, and they love to take other people’s money.

I understand that politicians are born with that theft gene in their DNA, so I have plenty of compassion when they wink and tell the world the average resident (anywhere) needs to pay more in taxes.

Of course, most working people know that that is not true.  The Average Joe and Joette pay lots in taxes for the benefit of all of society.  This money includes school funding, police and fire services, and transportation needs.

But it also includes tax dollars for free phones, food, housing, education, and parkland, all of which are not necessarily used by the working class and elderly.  Still, they pay for all those amenities and say nothing about this strong arm crime.

My sainted wife and I decided we deserved a magical appliance in the form of a KitchenAid mixer, upon our retirement.

For decades we either had not enough money for one, or not enough space.  KitchenAid mixers are a high-quality appliance that uses attachments to augment its versatility.  In other words, it’s a terrific gift that provides a regular excuse to buy a new attachment.

After some years, we’ve accumulated a wide variety of those attachments to include a pasta maker, spiralizer, grinder, and shredder, all of which work well, thereby encouraging future purchases.

And because we have a copious amount of citrus fruits, hand reaming is virtually impossible.

Yes, we own one of those little plastic deals with an attached glass jar to collect your fresh-squeezed lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruit, sans seeds.

We made an executive decision to purchase the next logical mixer attachment, a citrus juicer.

A ray of sunshine - everywhere except California

Once home in our modest kitchen I opened the box for its initial washing.  It was at this point that I discovered something terribly alarming; we were either going to die an imminent death, or we weren’t.  I wasn’t quite sure, though.

The box sported a label that had writing in three languages, two of which were foreign – ha, ha – to me.

This stern warning appears as follows: CALIFORNIA RESIDENTS ONLY – WARNING: Cancer and Reproductive Harm – www.P65Warnings.ca.gov

Wasn’t I right about it being pretty stern?

But this is where the waters become cloudy.  According to this legal, written by and overpaid attorney, warning, this applies to California, only.  Or does it?

It appears as though cancer and reproductive harm is germane and limited to California.

All this begs the question: how do California residents juice their citrus fruit?

Maybe all this nannyism – a close cousin to buttinskism – is just another way for lawyers to make a quick buck by writing goofy warnings, thereby adding unwanted costs to the products to which they are attached.

Here’s my personal solution to this serious dilemma.  I merely turned the box over to where I couldn’t see the dire warning and avoided a deadly crisis for me and my family.

Please feel free to use this handy tip yourself.