Industrial Strength

While waiting to catch a glimpse of Snoop Dogg, Mylie Cyrus, Amy Schumer, Lena Dunham, or Whoopi Goldberg, arrive at the airport, I decided to check the latest news on my phone.

 

I gave up on George Lopez and Cher and Bryan Cranston, as well as Samuel L. Jackson, because I really don’t care about them.  In fact, I really don’t care about any of those phony actors and actresses who promised to leave America if Donald Trump was elected to the office of President.

 

Uh, oh.  He was.

 

And they didn’t leave.  And that’s too bad.  Fake news?  Yep.  Unfortunately, Mark Zuckerberg’s fancy algorithms didn’t catch those lies – uh – untruths, the way they deftly discovered questionable comments and postings by former President Donald J. Trump. But I digress.

 

In any case, I stumbled upon a news story that, at first blush, I thought was more fake news.

 

As old as I am, I regularly come across information, news stories, legends, and even names that continue to flabbergast me.  This one is no different and may actually move up to the top of the list in the stupid department.

 

It seems a Louisiana woman intent on grooming herself discovered she was out of what the hair stylists term “product.”  Product can consist of many items for hair use and can be purchased in salons and stores nationwide.

 

Unbeknownst to me, I, too use product in the form of styling gel according to my sainted wife who knows product.  But product evidently covers a wide variety of things used to make people pretty including – well, I don’t know; you’ll just have to trust me on this one.

 

In this instance, the Louisiana woman, Tessica Brown, began to panic in order to find product for her hair.  A thorough search turned up little in the way of something to help hold her hair in place.

 

Tessica Brown's SUPER hold

Until she came across something called Gorilla Glue.  Gorilla Glue is a glue as clearly mentioned in its name.  It works very well in that I have used it in the past to adhere everything from plastic to wood.  Believe me when I tell you it holds, probably the result of the name of a tenacious grasp - gorilla-like - in a glue form, I’m guessing.

 

Gorilla Glue comes in various forms – much like product – to encompass jars, cans, tubes, and aerosol.  Brown opted for the handy spray adhesive application which produced excellent holding power.

 

The bad news is Brown evidently discovered Gorilla Glue is designed to hold, not unhold.  You may want to re-read that last sentence if you are contemplating substituting Gorilla Glue for hair gel.

 

After a month of EXTRA hold, she called the Gorilla Glue Company who offered little in the way of solutions except to offer their congratulations on achieving what they consider a genuine permanent hold, and two-thumbs up.

 

A visit to a local hospital was met with amazement at the rigidity of her weave, and how long it has remained in place.

 

Acetone was used on her hair only to find it became gooey and re-hardening after a short while, sadly burning her scalp in the process.

 

Suddenly Brown’s effort to cut corners was met with new challenges.

 

The Gorilla Glue Company tweeted: “We are very sorry to hear about the unfortunate incident that Miss Brown experienced using our Spray Adhesive on her hair. We are glad to see in her recent video that Miss Brown has received medical treatment from her local medical facility and wish her the best.”

“The company goes on to reiterate that its product ‘is not indicated for use in or on hair as it is considered permanent.’”

I suppose looking to find a positive note in this experience may be two-fold.  Firstly, Brown will no longer have to buy gel thereby saving copious amounts of money.

Secondly, looking back at history as a lesson, coloring her hair will likely not involve enamel spray paint.

Dumpster Fire 55

 On the tail end of the 2021 Super Bowl, LV, we bid farewell to all the hoopla while we examine what we just witnessed.

 

This over-hyped spectacle attempted to garner countless viewers to witness a football competition – not to be confused with soccer, the other football – within the confines of our own homes.

 

For weeks prior, guvment officials insisted this annual event was best watched in our own homes, much like Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and Kwanzaa, absolutely avoiding other human contact to prevent the spread of the “C-word” virus. 

 

On the other hand, presidential inaugurations, riots in Seattle and Portland, and enthusiastic lootings in Minneapolis, are mask less OKs, when it comes to the C-word flu.  But I digress.

 

Seemingly countless commercials run for $5,000,000 per 30-second spot filled the already crowded TV schedule in an attempt to get viewers to change the channel to the Puppy Bowl on the Animal Planet Channel.

 

First up was an advertisement from Jeep, featuring some has-been singer named Bruce Springsteen.  This Trump-hating anti-American whined over the past 4-years about then-President Trump being a horrible man, and how he desperately wanted to leave the country until President Trump’s term was up; Springsteen didn’t because he’s not only smarmy, he’s also a liar and probably lazy and likely inebriated.

 

And so it went for hours, one America-bashing commercial after another poking fun at the consumers expected to purchase lame products.  This parade of propaganda continued until the announcers realized one of the referees was a woman.

 

Once identified as not a man, this referee was idolized because of her sex.  Period.  She had done nothing extraordinary other than be born with guvment-approved parts to instantly transform her into something of a “hero” in the sports world because she was the “first woman.”  Yeah!

 

Then as he took the field we heard litanies of praise about the youngest quarterback to play in a Super Bowl.  And he is Black.  Yeah!

 

The Kansas City Disparaging Native American Named Team, also known as “The Chiefs,” utilized a fellow identified as Patrick Mahomes to quarterback their team to a near victory.  Actually, it was nowhere near a victory for the Kansas City Disparaging Native American Named Team, but he was the youngest, Black quarterback to play in a Super Bowl.  Yeah!

 

Tom Brady, the oldest, White quarterback to play in a Super Bowl appeared to dominate the game with a squeaker of a victory, 31 – 9.  His Tampa Bay Buccaneers won, but Mahomes’ mother felt otherwise, blaming the refs for the Kansas City Disparaging Native American Named Team’s loss.  Of course.  It wasn’t because of the team’s poor performance.  But I digress, again.

 

In any case, the mindless dolts only watching to espy the next commercial ad were treated to more inane examples of who in America needs psychotropic drugs.  Until half-time, that is.

 

Fade-in from black, and the world witnessed some white-clad character hovering above a dark backdrop, descending into the stadium.  The crowd went wild when the main performer, who no one seemed to be able to identify, hopped around the makeshift stage, apparently lip-syncing into a prop microphone.

 

He yodeled a half-dozen musical numbers – all of which sounded alike – with more and more clearly racist themes being exhibited.

 

I still don't know who this musical star is

Behind him was a wall of all Black stringed musicians, while jumping around on the field were what appeared to be hundreds of red sport coat-clad Black men wearing gasmask-looking facial coverings.

 

None of it made sense then, and no one can describe the meanings of all that, now.  It seems as though segregation is alive and well within the Super Bowl-approved show.

 

It seemed odd that a clear display of racial and sexual inclusiveness were absent, while Jeep hopefully succeeded in alienating American patriots by using a Marxist-loving singer to piously deliver narration for inclusiveness, Springsteen now wants in a country he helped divide.

 

I’m not sure who thought this dumpster fire of a display was a good idea, but I hope the Super Bowl LVI committee rethinks next year’s public exhibit with more societal richness.

Just Give Up

 The world, in general, America, in particular, consists of people who have marginal survival skills.

 

When I mention survival skills I don’t necessarily mean plying South American or African jungles with a machete in the hopes of finding potential food before that same potential food finds them as potential food.

 

No, I mean basic skills of a civilized society that includes modern day hunters and gatherers.  In those basic skills I include finding a parking lot space, acquiring a shopping cart without a crippled wheel, and being able to locate toilet paper on the meagerly stocked shelves.

 

Serious periodic introspection gives me a sense of superiority compared to my fellow shoppers, at least the ones who found that elusive parking space.

 

In any case, some shopping does not necessarily require finding a parking space or even the store itself.  That should be seen as a bonus to those with shopping challenges.

 

There’s something new called “the internet,” which allows one to visit most of their favorite stores without leaving their COVID-19-free homes, or removing those nasty curlers from their hair.

 

Normally, that would be the end of the story, but because I have ample time today, you get even more words.  Yea!

 

Over the past few months Americans who have a television have been overdosed with ads about buying supplemental health insurance.  This insurance is in addition to Medicare, a brilliant Ponzi scheme that closely rivals the Social Security System.

 

It seems as though congressional shysters created this boneheaded structure to create a sense of privilege and urgency to make a decision to buy additional coverage.

 

Over the past six-plus decades of my life, I made sure I was covered by health insurance, most of which followed me into my retirement years.  Some new plans and additional riders were necessary to ensure my coverage was thorough enough for my twilight years.

 

All this extra coverage costs money, though, money that comes out of my pocket. But I had planned on most of these financial outlays in life, something for which I budgeted before my austere segment of existence.

 

However, over these past few weeks I have begun to think I am pretty much alone in the planning department and possess survival skills that are rare beyond comprehension.

 

As mentioned earlier, I have seen countless commercials for supplemental health insurance.  Without fail, every other ad is for this insurance.  But that’s not the fingernails-on-a-blackboard irritation that’s been driving me crazy.

 

What’s taking me on that short trip to crazy is a fellow named Joe Namath.

 

Joe Namath was a quarterback for the University of Alabama, aka.: Crimson Tide, in the 1960’s.  He got a job as quarterback for the New York Jets, where he paved his road to fame in the 1969 Super Bowl III.  Namath’s Jets were 18-point underdogs, but won.  And the rest is history.

 

One would think Joe Namath would have saved his pennies over the years.  He appeared in dozens of television and stage shows, and even had a short-lived show of his own.  He’s in his middle 70’s, and reportedly has a net worth of $18,000,000.

 

All this leads me to the question: why does an old guy, a has-been, with millions of dollars, have to slobber on TV for health insurance companies?

 

He might be more palatable if he didn’t speak with an annoying half-Southern accent which is only augmented with his ill-fitting dentures.  But I digress.

 

It’s about time Joe avoided the mass media and sat in the sun room and stuck to making wallets.  On the other hand, that may have been Joe doing seemingly endless laps in the Walmart parking lot in search of a parking spot adjacent to the door.

 

Likewise, Tom Selleck, television star of the 1970’s and ‘80’s, is easily spotted hawking reverse mortgages.  This is another example of idols of yore refusing to take their places in a rocking chair or recliner, in lieu of irritating the balance of America with their sales spiels.

 

Because I excel at offering free, usually unwanted advice, I’d like to take this opportunity to provide some more to both Joe and Tom: Just give up.

 

I’m just saying.

More Wacky Ideas

 Often, I recall all those promises passed along to us through international expositions, magazines, movies, and black and white television shows.  Most of those information transfer methods passed along great expectations that seemed outlandish then, and after a half-century, outlandish now.

 

I specifically recall space-age kitchens with dispensers spitting out pharmaceutical-style capsules which were supposed to help us ingest the appropriate amount of vitamins and minerals, as well as carbohydrates, cholesterol, and calories.

 

My memory serves me well when I recall automobiles being transformed into personal airplanes by attaching overhead wings, powered by an engine in the rear.  Promises included being able to avoid traffic jams thereby permitting expedited methods to travel to and from work.

 

Then there were those special, secret carburetors for cars that would make driving nearly free.  According to the stories, some guy in Indiana invented a carburetor that could digest plain old tap water.  Yep.  Plain old tap water used for fuel, thereby eliminating the need for gas stations, which would help the world.  Of course, the gas at that time cost thirty-three cents per gallon.

 

There were trains that would travel from Washington, D.C. to New York City at speeds approaching 150 MPH!  That trip would be complete in about 60-minutes rather than the normal 3½-hours.

 

Of course along the way there many speed bumps that popped up.  And most of those speed bumps were discovered to be nothing short of lies and/or pipe dreams that proved these wonderful inventions and paths to idyllic to be products of overactive imaginations.

 

Space-age kitchens were a big bust inasmuch as food manufacturers seemed too busy reinventing frozen pizzas to move forward to change the way we eat.

 

Those flying cars also flew out of Popular Science magazines just as quickly as they were printed therein.  Imagine all those people who can’t get out of the left highway lane clogging up the skies.  Crashes and mayhem would likely resemble Bloody April Air Battle of Arras in WWI, hardly the much desired expeditious trip to the office one would hope for.

 

And that magic carburetor that promised to put the House of Saud out of business was another tale.  It was said General Motors bought it so that they didn’t have to retool their vehicles.  Another story had a similar bent with Esso – now Exxon Mobil – purchasing the blueprints and patent rights.  Sure.

 

Lastly, those 150 MPH trains we were promised would up being another fabrication from everyone in cahoots with the railroad, the funding government officials, and local government types who felt they could easily snooker taxpayers for another means of ineffective interstate travel.

 

But along the way, a new cottage industry popped up and quickly spread to our dilapidated schools systems nationwide.  It was the ecological movement that has since evolved into the Green Movement.

 

That movement, not unlike the previously hyped promises, offered hope for a crisis created by the “solution.”  In other words, the tail wagging the dog.

 

The ecological movement identified weaknesses in life such as too much wasted paper, over-flowing landfills, as well as land and water pollution. 

 

Of course they found hot-button topics which no one in the world could balk at identifying as serious and genuine goals for which to strive.  Unfortunately, the do-good politicians who hold the checkbooks to taxpayer monies quickly realized that those checks translated into future votes, and thereby political career longevity.

 

One of the lies that bother me the most is the wasted paper crisis.  Although I seem to be perfect, I have a big fault.  That fault is paper.  Keeping paper, sorting paper, and finding important papers, are the banes in my life, and things at which I don’t excel.  The biggest flaw is that pesky “finding important papers” thing I mentioned.

 

It seems as though I never need run-of-the-mill receipts, lame brochures, or “important” phone numbers.  Rather, it is the documentation I need for my taxes and such.  The rest of that paperwork, to me, is extraneous trash that winds-up in the critical landfills.

 

But speaking of extraneous, here’s a quick, informal survey: Who in your immediate vicinity is unaware driving your car using gasoline is connected to “climate change?”

 

“Climate change” is the catchy phrase that the Green Movement uses to sting the masses into life-altering legislation, such as solar-powered airplanes and electric vehicles.  It doesn’t matter those electric vehicles need to be recharged with coal and gas plants.  Alas.

 

The good news is Cambridge, Massachusetts, has the insight to help the world one city at a time.  Sure, it will begin with them.

 

One more sticker will help the planet

These critical thinkers feel the need to require each and every gas pump be emblazoned with yellow stickers that will dutifully notify you that filling up your vehicle with gas will cause climate change.

 

Imagine the number of discarded cars and trucks at service stations in Cambridge that will be abandoned by responsible drivers who would rather walk than drive their vehicles back home, all to save the environment.

 

More useless paper from greedy politicians.