Really?

While traipsing about The Eastern Shore last week, I came across a sign that read “The Eastern

Shore’s Best Fried Chicken.”

 

I eat a lot, and a lot of that food consists of fried chicken.  And, some of that chicken was had at restaurants, fast food joints, diners, even gas stations, but this sign was prominently placed in front of a flea market.

 

This is a place I visit semi-frequently, going inside to use the restroom, on occasion.  The restrooms are located very nearby the kiosk that vends food, including that “Best Fried Chicken.”

 

Fearing being a victim of a grease fire, I do my business as quickly as possible, then exiting.  On the way out the door, I always notice a lengthy queue of food patrons awaiting their orders.  And I always say a brief silent prayer for their continued health.

 

Not being the bravest soul on the planet, I have trepidations about eating fried chicken from this oily spectacle.  I’d ask those in line about the quality of that chicken but, I don’t speak Spanish.

 

Nonetheless, I went about my trek and wondered about how the judging was accomplished.  Awarding this hole-in-the-wall “The Eastern Shore’s Best Fried Chicken” trophy was odd, to say the least.

 

Not recalling a ballot or questionnaire regarding the gustatory perception of fried chicken anywhere near The Shore, I felt compelled to research this matter for our readers.

 

It so happens that there are lots of “bests” on The Shore.  There are oyster roasts, parties, hotels, beaches, high schools, weddings, festivals, bands, car dealers, ceramic tile centers, variety stores, coastal towns, magazines, newspapers, universities, and crabs.

 

I had no idea.

 

Evidently these elections are private affairs, as I have never seen a ballot for something akin to the “best bait,” or “best incomprehensible dialect.”

 

Still, I tried to help our readers sort out the best from the mediocre and the so-so.  You’ll likely never see a sign reading “Stop Here for The Eastern Shore’s So-So Tire Shop.”  If you do, write me.

 

So I realize this is, in many cases, a self-assigned honor designed to lure the hapless and misinformed into a particular business for the sake of saying, “gotcha!”

 

This sort of blind faith is okay for hotels, stores, and ceramic tiles, but if you hear the word “ptomaine,” then it’s gotcha!

I’m Sick, Too!

Like cycles of the moon, fads come and go.  Pokemon©, Hula Hoop©, Frisbee©, and Paris Hilton, are all examples of fads that had their heyday and thankfully vanished into has-been status.

 

This also happens with foods.  Liquid chocolate fountains, chicken wings, fondue, and burned-tasting over-expensive coffee, are another few examples of fads that are going the way of the dodo.

 

Even medical woes have their days on the fad list.  Peanut allergies, kid’s braces, and over-tanning, have been added to that list.  And so has celiac disease, aka. CD.

 

Never being a fad kind-of-guy, chicken wings are about the only one with which I got involved, and it shows.

 

But today, nearly everyone you meet has CD. 

 

“I can’t eat bread because it has wheat flour,” is often heard being uttered by simple morons.

 

“Do you have celiac disease?” queries the deli owner.

 

“Uh, no.  But I heard wheat flour contains gluten, and gluten is bad,” proudly states the moron.

 

No, it’s not.

 

CD is a digestion problem that is caused by the ingestion of gluten in the form of wheat.  These vehicles include pasta, bread, cookies, cakes, and anything else made from wheat flour.

 

An estimated 100,000,000 American fad-followers are attempting to go gluten-free because they heard gluten was bad for you.  It is not, unless you have CD; otherwise, you are simply proving you are a sheep.

 

Only 1% of the population suffers from CD, and I sympathize with them.  It must be a terrible thing to live life without pizza or brownies.

 

I, too, suffer from allergies, including one from the spice sage.  Violently ill, would be the best way to describe my personal reaction to even smelling sage, much less eating it.  I do understand about real allergies.

 

But, people who merely want to join the fad of CD may actually be hurting themselves in the long run.

 

Your stomach may hurt because of your reduction of fiber.  You’ll be extra tired because you are ingesting fewer carbs.  Gluten-free foods often use rice as the filler; rice is a source of inorganic arsenic, and can contribute to lung cancer, bladder cancer, and type-2 diabetes.  Congrats!

 

In summation, businesses are trying to capitalize on your perceived medical issue of CD and are offering everything from gluten-free lap dances, to gluten-free haircuts.

 

Caveat emptor.  For those reader living in Philadelphia, that is Latin for ‘buyer beware.”

 

Next month it will be something new.  Just keep in mind that lead, uranium, and cocaine are gluten-free, too.

My Hair Hurts

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” is an idiom that references just that.  Before the days of refrigeration, the act of removing fish from their travel vessels – barrels – was far easier to point a gun into the barrel and dispatch them by shooting them in that confined space, than to try to grab them alive.

 

This is similar to the situation of October 2, 2015, in Roseburg, Oregon’s Umpqua Community College.  There, a nut-job with a couple of guns took aim at students attempting to benefit themselves by improving their life-skills.

 

Without going into too much detail, mass murders seem to becoming the latest trend among the mentally ill among us.

 

Similar tragedies have occurred elsewhere over the past few years.  And, those similar tragedies are closely related.  They have all been committed by crazy losers who have an imaginary scab to pick on an innocent segment of society.

 

Offices, schools, theaters, day-car centers, shopping malls, and military bases, have all been subject to heinous crimes committed by animals who should have been institutionalized.

 

Even President Barack Hussein Obama noticed the actions of this shooter.  I specify this because he has yet to mention the shooting of Kate Steinle by an illegal alien with an illegal gun, while committing illegal acts such as trespassing and firearm possession.  He had no words for her or that murder.

 

But when President Obama found out about this horrible event, he decided to address it in a televised message.  Feigning crocodile tears, albeit missing the prop Kleenex tissue, he immediately condemned gun owners and the NRA for this act.

 

Quite similar to a scene from the movie Groundhog Day, President Obama predictably called for the Republican Congress to “do something.”  Those are code words for outlawing guns in America.

 

But this tragedy was somewhat different because we didn’t get information about the gunman for many, many hours after the news broke.  Leaks are common in these cases but, this one appeared odd.  No information about anything but his age.  The Roseburg Sheriff claimed he didn’t want the killer to receive desired notoriety.  That was baloney to the nth degree.

 

And then we found out why.

 

Chris Harper-Mercer was the nut-job coward.  He was in his mid-twenties, and was actually taking a class at Umpqua CC.

 

According to witness reports, this coward cornered the fish inside the gun-free zone classrooms and methodically asked each about their religion; where they were shot was dependent upon their answers.

 

Non-Christian, leg; avowed Christian, head. 

 

Confrontation with police led to this coward committing suicide.  Thank God he saved us the agony of a trial.  Amen.

 

However, the story does not end here, and we now know why.

 

The Los Angeles Times, a decidedly liberal rag disguised as a newspaper, just released the real reason President Obama, the Roseburg Sheriff, and the balance of the media refused to provide more details about that Harper-Mercer puke.

 

“The Los Angeles Times has labeled the Oregon shooter as having ‘white supremacist leanings’ even though the shooter was black." That was the headline reported by Breitbart.com.  And CNN, the Communist News Network, also reportedly re-tinted Harper-Mercer’s photo to give the impression he was Caucasian.  Pretty neat, eh?

 

I feel great remorse for the victims and their families, and especially President Obama who desperately tries to criminalize the people and guns who had nothing to do with anything.

 

His phony rants would be better placed if he applied them to the 14,000,000 aborted babies that he promotes and actually cheers.

 

You can’t have it both ways, brother.

Random Thoughts III

Once again, I got into the martinis.  And as much of the regular readers are aware, I get philosophical  The result is another list of random thoughts.

when imbibing.

 

• Gas should be less than $2 per gallon.
• There are a lot of phonies who go to church.  The phoniest sit in the front pews.
• White lives matter.
• I love figs wrapped in prosciutto with bleu cheese.
• Why do people buy convertibles then ride around with the tops up?
• People who use kayaks to paddle around flooded neighborhoods look stupid.
• People who cross-country ski in snowy neighborhoods look stupid, too.
• Why should I pay for someone else’s kid to go to college, Mrs. Clinton?
• How much is too much money?  And, how much makes you rich?
• I like Donald Trump.
• “Hands-up, don’t shoot” is a lie.
• My sainted wife and I are the last two people on Earth without tattoos.
• Protesters given safe haven in Ferguson, MO, stole computers and tablets.  Nice.
• Why can you get SSI for being a douchebag?
• People come to visit and wind-up talking on their phones to someone else.  Go home.
• Cat lives matter, too.
• Where did all the hot water go?
• I must be the smartest person in my house because I know how to replace the toilet paper.
• I’m not sure why folks like their lawns to look like hay fields.
• Let Uber be Uber.
• CNN should be changed to a shopping network or cooking network.
• Where did I put my drink?
• Would I be so sick if I had mediocre health insurance?
• Why hasn’t anyone heard of Jade Helm?
• I’m tired of Glenn Beck telling me for whom I should vote.
• There is a special place in Hell for those jerk-offs who write malicious computer code.
• Why can’t dying people get those experimental drugs?
• Morons who protest killing a lion should get jobs and lives.
• If you don’t find Planned Parenthood tactics reprehensible, you are dim-witted
• Who voted for President Barack Hussein Obama the second time?
• Mosquitoes make you fond of flies.
• Global warming, global cooling, climate change - Which is it now? 
• Hard root beer is magical.
• Leave the Stars and Bars flag alone.
• We need a wall along the southern border.
• If you don’t work, stop buying stuff.  If you need money, get a job!  I’m not an ATM.
• Why is .22 ammunition so scarce and expensive?
• That grass you just mowed doesn’t look good in the street.  Sweep it up.
• Keep it zipped up until you can afford to pay for your own kids.
• I need more vodka and olives.

 

Hope you return next week for another story.  Thanks for reading.

Post Season Play

September 1964 found me and at least six other classmates suddenly deaf and wearing hearing aids.

 

Hearing aids back then were big, clunky things with hooks that wrapped around your ear to prevent it from falling out.  Many guys had them – most were because of artillery noise during WWII and the Korean War.

 

The hearing aid excuse was lame, but essential to listening to my new AM transistor radio.

 

It was a gift for my First Communion, a rite celebrated in the Catholic faith.  Thank goodness I got one because the New York Yankees were vying for a pennant.

 

Mickey Mantle was their center fielder and doing well with the bat.  Joe Pepitone, Roger Maris, and Elston Howard were driving in homeruns, too.  The Series looked like a sure thing.

 

For some reason, many of the games were played during the afternoon hours, seriously crimping my school work in the fourth grade.  It was a decision that wasn’t easy but, I needed to fake deafness in favor of listening to the game on my radio.

 

A few other miscreants though this was good idea and followed suit.  The class resembled a Veteran’s Administration facility for midgets.

 

We thought we were fooling Sister Theresa, our block warden at St. Adalbert’s Elementary School.  It just so happens, Sister Theresa was a Yankees fan, too.

 

Pedro Ramos was pitching for the Bronx Bombers and winning.  Yogi Berra was their new manager.  All was well with the world.

 

The Yanks' 29^th pennant was in the bag and, with some fresh 9 volt batteries, the World Series seemed like a cakewalk.

 

The St. Louis Cardinals were the National League champs and hungry for the title of the best baseball team in the world.

 

Actually, since only American teams play, it should be called the United States Series.  But, it is not, and I didn’t name it.

 

Alas, the Cardinals wanted those rings more than the Yankees.  It was a seven game series that found St. Louis winning 4 – 3 games.

 

We were frightened the Vatican would be called to investigate after October 15^th since all seven of us made a miraculous recovery from our “ear woes.”

 

Sure, our ability to properly use glue and find East Germany on a map was diminished.  The good news is that the Vatican didn’t get involved, our contraband radios were not seized, I don’t use glue anymore, and East Germany doesn’t exist on any modern map.

 

And, Sister Theresa got regular score updates.

Time To Go

  I was shopping for groceries with my sainted wife when the cashier asked if we needed stamps.  This

is when I entered the trance.

 

Over a score ago, I was standing in line at a local Arlington, Virginia, post office, waiting to purchase enough postage to send out my payment for bills.  The line was long and I persisted because the electric company needed my cash.

 

The black clerk – we called that race of people “black” at that time because that’s what they wanted – was busy gabbing with a buddy.  She was so engrossed in her private conversation with another black lady that she didn’t notice the dozen paying patrons standing in the growing line.

 

Her demeanor immediately switched from cordial to surly when I stepped up to the counter for my turn.  Upon asking for stamps, she threw the pack on the counter, never looking up.  Money was exchanged and the deal was consummated curtly and mime-like.

 

This experience recurred every few months as my postage supply depleted until this clerk vanished.

 

She was no longer behind the counter much to my delight.  She may have been reassigned, fired, or simply retired.  Nonetheless, she was not there trying to ignore her paying customers.  And all was well with the world.

 

But, this is where the story actually begins.  Each year, in the style of birthdays, the United States Postal Service – their words, not mine – celebrates another 365 days of poor service while begging for more money from Congress to continue this waste of tax dollars.

 

Each year they pathetically explain why they lost not only your mail and packages, but your respect and admiration.  Last year they reported generating over $47,000,000,000 in operating losses over the last ten years.  That’s about $50 per second.

 

But, if they only had more money, they could make a profit this year.  And so it goes with Congress agreeing to see their loss and raise them another few billion to keep the game going.

 

With this snowstorm of cash, the USPS has tried to remake itself by adding things other than postal-related stuff for sale.  Shirts, ties, and coffee mugs are just a few things that didn’t make them hip.

 

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds,” is not the official motto of the Postal Service, either.  It has no official motto.

 

But if it did, it should be “We lose what you lick.” 

 

Maybe it would be prudent to make stamps more easily available in the post office itself, rather than the grocery store.

 

And it might behoove them to remember they have no competition in the mail business, as it is a federal crime to compete against the USPS.  In other words, they are the only game in town.

 

Perhaps that motto should be “Surprisingly we’re still in business.”

And the Answer is…

It’s been a while since we’ve had a test so, let’s begin with one today.

 

Q:  The following symbol is called ____________.  Symbol: #

 

A:  You are wrong.

 

Okay, that wasn’t fair.  But, you are still wrong.

 

In the event you said “#” is “hashtag,” you are incorrect because it is a pound sign.

 

If you said “#” is the symbol for a pound sign, you’re wrong.

 

The pound sign is correctly represented by “£.”

 

Confusing, ain’t it?

 

As a child, I was taught # was a pound sign.  It appears on telephones and computers, and was known as a pound sign pretty much everywhere except the United Kingdom and Ireland.

 

There, the pound sign is £, which represents their money, the pound sterling, also known as the Great British Pound (GBP).

 

If you think that is confusing, in Great Britain, # was known as “hatch” not “hash.”  This corrupted word now creates confusion world-wide, with few people agreeing on its meaning.  Therefore, it should be a “hatchtag.”  It ain’t.

 

In Chinese it is called a cross.  In fact, # is the Chinese character for water well.

 

In the event you are a musician, # is called a sharp sign which denotes a change or augmentation of a note or chord.

 

Should you be editing documents, that # symbol is used for a variety of corrections of lines, margins, or spaces.

 

It can be a sink or a fence in architecture, a scratch mark, a crosshatch, or a waffle.

 

When you were three years-old, it was a tic-tac-toe game board.

 

So, no matter what you answered on the quiz, you were both wrong and right.

 

But it has become tiresome to hear the word “hashtag” in every commercial that tries to be hip, and confusing to those of us who have lives outside of the digital world.

 

Besides, at my advanced age I immediately think of fried potatoes when I hear hashtag, mistaking it for hashbrowns.

 

I’m hungry.  Stop it!