Saving the Planet

Virtually daily I read at least one newspaper cover-to-cover.  I still enjoy flipping pages from left to right, folding them in an origami style to mosey into the bathroom, and then contort the comic section into a neat rectangle to better handle the crossword puzzles.

And each day I read news that is less than smile-invoking that include both local and national stories.

Donald Trump conspired with the Russians; Donald Trump is a racist because he bombed Syria with Tomahawk missiles, whose name is offensive to American Indians; and Donald Trump wants to put bald eagle sandwiches on the McDonald’s menu, are just a few of the stories that put life itself in a dim light.

With North Korea readying to send nuclear ICBMs to the United States, ISIS retards trying to kill all Christians and Jews, and American college students protesting the fact we breathe air, only add to the written media mayhem we see and hear non-stop.

Chief Wahoo

But this morning, I stumbled across a legitimate news article which put true terror in both my heart and soul.  The headline was: “Commish goes after Indians logo.”

You read that right.  It seems as though Cleveland, Ohio, and Major League Baseball’s commissioner Rob Manfred, believe the biggest, most dire threat facing civilization today is the Chief Wahoo logo.

For people unfamiliar with sports, especially my sainted wife, each team has a logo, and most have mascots.  The Cleveland Indians’ logo is that of a cartoon character named Chief Wahoo.

Before you get ahead of this story, keep in mind that there are other American Indian logos in the professional sports world.  Let’s count them: Washington Redskins, Atlanta Braves, Chicago Blackhawks, Kansas City Chiefs, Cincinnati Reds, Golden State Warriors, and the Cleveland Indians.  That’s seven.

Somehow the only logo that seems to bother the self-righteous MLB commissioner is the one that belongs to the Cleveland Indians.  Of course, the National Football League commissioner has agita over only one team too, the Washington Redskins.

Let’s forget about the racist Boston Celtics logo, the super-offensive Minnesota Vikings logo, the obese-implying New York Giants, and the criminally weird and divisive Chicago Bears.  I know the bears aren’t really offensive, but someone somewhere is an animal lover who feels that bears are being exploited.  But I digress.

So you see, there is hard-hitting news that can really make a difference in the way people live their lives.  If only we could change the offensive names of sports teams, Senator Charles Schumer might even crack a smile.

Nah.

The True North

Well before the presidential elections, I began learning another foreign language.  Yes, I actually know several, including Polish, German, a bit of Italian, and a smattering of English.

I needed these different tongues to get me through my jaunts around the world.  My latest endeavor was Spanish, inasmuch as my neighbor, who is a native Peruvian, is a terrific guy with a great family. 

To better communicate with them, I decided to make an effort to demonstrate inclusion.  For the Christmas holiday, I learned to wish him “Fleece Navidad.”  Unfortunately, that has more to do with sheep than Baby Jesus.  I stand corrected, though.

So, because our new president is threatening to build a wall to keep out illegal aliens, I realized we would have very few new Spanish-speakers breaking into America.  To stay ahead of the curve, I thought it would be prudent to ready myself for a new influx from the north rather than the south.

Canada is often referred to as “America Lite,” a term that is not necessarily offensive, but not really flattering, either.

Fact:  Florida triples in population during the months of November through April, mostly because of the invasion of Canadians.  Canada actually closes during those winter months forcing our northern neighbors to seek residence elsewhere; the last Winnebago driver turns the lights off. 

Florida is much warmer and has better health care than Canada, hence the flood of bodies.

Just as with countries to the south of the United States, countries to the north utilize a different language than we Americans do.  With the exception of Louisiana and New Jersey, most of America speaks American English.

Of course, some speak the language better than others but, for the most part, a word is a word, is a word.  Unless it is Canada, that is.  You see, they use English and French which is akin to setting your hair on fire.

Let’s examine this international phenomenon I like to call “annoying.”

The country of Canada consists of 3.86 million square miles, or 375 trillion square kilometers.  Because it’s a foreign country, they feel it necessary to distinguish themselves from the United States by using an archaic system of measurements.  Of course, the only nation to put a man on the Moon was the country not using the metric system.  I’m just saying…

In any case, Canadians drive on lines, a northern name for small roads; and they don’t use napkins, they use serviettes.

Back bacon is term for thinly-sliced ham, which you would buy with a loonie.  A loonie is not only someone native to California, but a hard currency in Canada, too.

And if a Canadian were to stay home from the job, they would book off work.  Perhaps they’re home because they had a two-fer last night, which is reference to a 24-pack of beer.  I’m guessing it would be Labatt’s.

If someone accused you of mucking down something, you’d stand accused of shoveling food into your mouth.

Plus, while conversing with ANY Canadian, you need to work the words hockey, snow, and “eh,” into every sentence.

There you have it.  You are now ready to accept visitors from the Great White North into the lower fifty with open arms without spending a lot of time trying to figure out what a “S'il vous plait” is.

You’re welcome.

Time to Clean House

A 5-year-old girl in North Carolina was suspended recently for playing with a stick.

New Age Arsenal

Yep, you read that right.  She was playing with a stick and was sent home for a one-day suspension for playing on the school playground with other students.

It seems as though Caitlin Miller was playing “princess” with two other girls during an assigned playtime.  One girl was the queen, the other was the princess, and Caitlin was playing the guard protecting the other two.  She was using a stick as a gun.

Here is where I get chafed.  Caitlin did what countless other kids have done for generations – pretend, or play act – using items available to make their play session complete.

As a child, I, too, played like a kid.  Most of the neighborhood kids had plastic guns.  Armed with rolls of caps – paper and gunpowder molded together forming a sub-miniature concoction that resembled tiny red toilet paper – that created a “BANG” when the toy gun trigger was pulled.

They were annoying to the adults but, they were great fun for us kids.

We played Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians (not Cowboys and Native Americans), G-Man, Army/War, just about anything we could mentally muster to be able to use our plastic guns.

Very few kids had to “borrow” a gun from a playmate; each had their own and each wielded them with aplomb.  I carried a Thompson submachine gun.

Alas, poor Caitlin had to make up her own gun in order to protect the fantasy monarchy with which she helped create a tiny make-believe land.

Each day Caitlin and the rest of America can tune-in practically any television station to watch cartoon characters, and live people, play act.  She could easily get lost in the fantasy she is seeing before her eyes.  But, her teachers felt the need to chastise her for mimicking those adults she’s supposed to look up to and emulate.  Sad, indeed.

Here’s my rub.  I fully blame the teachers and administrators involved because they are the ones who created their goofy zero-tolerance policy.

Those same weak-minded adults need to be drug-tested because, and correct me if I’m wrong, a stick cannot shoot bullets.

I am a pro-Second Amendment guy who believes guns are God’s tool to keep people free from tyranny, and safe from violent crime.

I often carry a gun for which I paid a small fortune.  Had I known, or even thought, that a stick could be as intimidating as a gun, I could have saved a bundle.  I wouldn’t have to clean it, nor would I have to hide it in a holster when out in public.

Once again, this is an excellent example of stupid people assigned to educate our kids.  It’s about time to clean house of nitwits in charge of teaching – or rather indoctrinating – America’s next generation.

A Day Out

It should come as no surprise that each of us find different ways to entertain ourselves.  Some of us go to the movies, some enjoy amusement parks, others like to visit the beach, while some have fun hiking through the woods.

Sure there are countless other ways to pleasantly pass the time but, there isn’t enough time to discuss them all.  That’s why I’m going to let you in on my personal ways to amuse myself.

A regular trip to my local shopping establishment, whose identity we’ll disguise by calling it Tallmart, provides me with inexpensive, healthy, and humorous time I consider well-spent.

My sainted wife, her friend, and I were cruising the aisles of Tallmart when I quickly discovered I was walking in a parallel universe.

The Male Ben Roethlisberger

Standing before me was a female Ben Roethlisberger.  I know it was him because I personally saw his name emblazoned on his Pittsburgh Steelers jersey.  Except he was a she.  And, she could have been a he.  I’m just saying.

Then I came across a woman who was wearing a very short dress made from cheese cloth.  Every ripple and piece of underwear was quite visible; it shouldn’t have been as this vision would clearly have been illegal in 38 states.  Of course I left my cell phone in the car.

Eventually, after the blindness left my eyes, I spied another Tallmart anomaly – some employee was actually doing some work, rather than standing around idly shooting the breeze with other equally idle employees.

Then it was off to the deli counter for some lunch meat.  I asked this woman for a pound of hard salami.  After several industrious minutes she placed the thin-sliced Italian delicacy on the scale.

This mass closely resembled a bird’s nest of monofilament fishing line.  I stared at it for a second; then I asked what she was doing.

“You said you wanted a pound of hard salami,” she snapped.

“Did you think of peeling the skin off before you began slicing?” was my question.

“You didn’t ask me to remove it!” was her retort.

As I marched away empty handed, I could hear her yelling that I forgot my order.  I didn’t.

After finding a manager, I explained this episode to her.  She shook her head and rued that all employees are here because they “passed the drug test.”

It seems as though competence, skills, knowledge, and playing well with others, is not critical to hiring at Tallmart.  Only the fact that you can pass a pee test is critical to the Tallmart dynasty.

This was the moment I realized why Tallmart was so darn entertaining. 

If someone in Benton, Arkansas is reading this, please consider changing your company policy regarding your hiring practices.

You might actually find some competent employees.  Or not.

Yellow Journalism

There are many words that describe me but, I’ve never been accused of being wasteful.  Growing up, we were not wealthy; in fact, that proverbial silver spoon in my mouth was made of plastic.

I suppose that meager lifestyle groomed me to be rather frugal throughout the balance of my life, which borders on cheap.

No, I’m not a hoarder; however I still see uses for many items that most other people would view as disposable.

Pieces of heavy duty twine are saved to later bundle stacks of newspapers and cardboard destined for the recycling.  Bags of Styrofoam peanuts are stored to be reused in the near future.  Empty jars will be filled with old cooking grease and disposed of in the trash within weeks.  These are just a few examples of my miserly ways.

You must realize I throw away “junky” stuff for which I see no viable use, and do so with aplomb.  That’s because I also detest clutter.

All these practices are an effort to save money down the road by not having to purchase balls of twine, expensive Styrofoam, and drain cleaner, to solve my stop-gap problems.

But it was my sainted wife who spurred my cranial idea cells, after her recent physical examination.

Her getting a new life insurance policy was the catalyst that triggered this mental tsunami in me.  It seems she needed to ensure her perfect health to this company that is betting they are not going to have to pay out on her gamble with longevity.

Besides home-based EKG, blood pressure, and head cavity tests, she was administered a urine test.  Yes, a urine test.

She is not, and has never been, a drug user of anything stronger than baby aspirin and Pinot Grigio.

But this pee test was not checking for anything legal.  Rather, it was checking for the illegal mood changers such as marijuana, crack cocaine, and methamphetamines.

My sainted wife – like me – is a little long-in-the-tooth, and I believe she would likely be less stoic if she perhaps imbibed in a wee-bit-o’-weed.  Still, she and the pee cup-issuing nurse got a good chuckle out of the whole exercise.

It was at this point the nurse went on to explain how she also travels from home-to-home giving pee tests to the previously convicted among us, who are currently on home detention and must pass a regular urine squirt in the jar.

This nurse told my sainted wife about the many ways these legal miscreants attempt to circumvent their tests, or beat them altogether.

Evidently that old adage about ‘necessity being the Mother of invention’ is alive and well.

These law breaking innovators evidently keep “clean urine” hidden in a vial inside the toilet tank for just such emergencies.  Such samples are provided by friends and family just in case.

Then there are merchants on eBay purloining a substance called Clean Pee that actually can be warmed up to replicate a human’s body temperature.  No lie.

Suddenly my brain cells kicked back in to those recycling activities in which i am regularly engaged.  It was also at this point that I realized I had literally dumped hundred of thousands of dollars down the toilet.

Those jars I would normally use for grease disposal are now being filled with you-know-what.

I will guarantee this stuff is drug free and capable of passing test after test after test.

So if you’re in the market for some clean pee, give me a call.  I can help for $50 per pint.

Snip, Snip!

Day trips in the car were something special when I was a kid.  And they were a big deal as they were rather infrequent.  Nothing in our house was spontaneous, as planning seemed paramount to anything successful.

Meals were planned a week in advance to ensure we had enough canned green beans, canned corn, and canned everything else salty, at hand.  Wood working projects were checked, re-checked, and checked again, to guarantee plenty of boards and stain and nails were available.  Those day trips were no different.

Mom would plan lunch with enough sandwiches to feed the Eighth Army, sodas, and some sort of dessert.  We never got dessert at home but, eating at a picnic table in some unfamiliar tourist trap dictated we have dessert.  This all meant we needed to make ice by the buckets full.

This is part of where the planning came in.  We had a drawer at the bottom part of the fridge that served as the freezer.  We would take turns making ice – tray by tray, one day after another – until my supervisor father would blow a whistle to indicate we had plenty.

In the mean time, Dad would begin assembling provisions for this few hour trip.  He would pack special provisions in a box destined for the trunk that would make Lawrence of Arabia yearn for.

We had a jug of anti-freeze, extra bottle of water for the windshield washer, two spare oil cans plus a spout, jumper cables, blankets, rags to wipe your hands, and wire cutters.

Eventually, we had enough stuff packed into the car to make the neighbors giddy thinking we were moving out of state.  Alas.

Back in the day there were no cell phones, reliable cars, or GPS devices.  We relied on paper maps, pay phones, personal wits and good luck to leave home and return safely.  Indians attacks were imminent, or so it seemed.

Day trips were just what they sound like.  They were established spots consisting of tourist traps that advertised to the kids.  Frontier Town, North Pole, and the like were themed toward rug rats like my sister and me.  We never visited those places.

Rather, we went to educational places like Ausable Chasm and Howe Caverns.  Both places were really cool and, as Dad put it, expensive.

Still, we got out of the house for a day.

Just in case you’ve never been to one of these tourist areas, one of the bonuses was to park your car in a lot while you played or hiked or sulked for several hours.  Upon return to your car you would find a bumper sign attached.

A bumper sign was a piece of flimsy cardboard upon which was printed a free ad for fellow drivers.  This cardboard had holes the entrepreneurs would put wires through to attach to your bumper.

These clever tags were pure genius as they were not much different than selling t-shirts with the establishment’s name upon it.  It was all gravy for the business owner.

Of course, these were the precursors to bumper stickers of yore, and those nifty window stickers of present.  But I digress.

It was at this time my Dad would turn beet red and make a beeline toward the trunk to fetch those all important wire cutters.  And all the way he would be muttering phrases illegal in 38 states about overcharging for admission yet screwing us by trying to get free advertising.

The snips were distinct and signaled an end to his rant.  Mom would do her best to find a roadside picnic table for us at which to enjoy our packed feast.  Dad was cooled off enough after working up an appetite cutting the tag wires, and my sister was just about done complaining about everything.

And all was good.  Until next time, that is.

Ice, Ice, Baby

It’s not often but, occasionally I talk to myself.  I meander into my workshop with intent, only to quickly realize the purpose was lost in a mere few steps.  That, is what we call a brain fart.  The verbal rambling begins, met by a blank stare from Smokey the cat.  Eventually I remember and start anew on my quest for whatever the original task was, and then complete it.

Still, along the way, a couple of sentences meant for no one but me were uttered uselessly.

I can’t really say this is a more frequent occurrence than before, just more annoying.  That is because I don’t have nearly as much on my mind as I did when I was gainfully employed.

So it was when I was on the phone attempting to acquire a manual for my refrigerator that I recalled my self-chatting and realized just how sane I was.

My sainted wife and I own a Samsung French door refrigerator with an ice maker.  Somewhere along the way the user manual became lost.  Don’t ask me where or how.

To attempt to rectify this seemingly insignificant issue, I simply found the phone number for Samsung on a sticker inside the wine cooler, aka: the vegetable tray.

I called and got an automated receptionist, aka: annoying woman’s voice.

Immediately, I was notified that this call would be monitored for quality control.  If someone was available to monitor this call, why not simply answer?

In any case, I was prompted to say my first name, and then spell it.  Next, I was asked to say my last name, and spell it.  In between these prompts were annoying sound effects attempting to simulate someone typing on a computer keyboard.  It was really hokey because after my first name – Uncle Paul – the fake computer clicks lasted for at least 18 seconds.  That’s enough time for a good secretary to type the Gettysburg Address.

Throughout all this clicking, I attempted to make small talk with my automated information taker.  I tried to converse about the weather and I even asked her for a date.  All fell on deaf digital ears.  There was no other person on the line, and I now realized that I was, once again, talking to myself. 

Three more minutes passed and I was informed I would be directed to a customer representative.  This time I was connected to a real life person who was fluent in Hindi.

Not an automatic ice maker

He was pleasant but, clearly he had no idea of the importance of self-dispensing ice crescents.

You see, the ice maker manufactures ice crescents rather than cubes.  Sure, they’re cute and all, but if you refer to them as ice cubes, they should be – at least – rectangular, if not cubed.  But I digress.

The fellow with whom I was now connected was named Afzal.  He was pleasant enough but not at all helpful.  He had real trouble pronouncing my name even after I has spoken clearly to the digital babe.

After providing Afzal with all my important information, including the refrigerator’s serial number, he informed me he could not provide me with a manual. Evidently, Samsung is poorer than I thought.

I needed to go on their website to download it.  That effort only consumed another twenty minutes.

I can’t wait for the call from Samsung to have me complete my satisfaction survey.  I’m going to write it in Hindi.