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!

Best Idea Ever

ˌtrebyəˈSHet/  noun: trebuchet; plural noun: trebuchets; noun: trebucket; plural noun: trebuckets

      a machine used in medieval siege warfare for hurling large stones or other missiles.

 

 

Words often heard after reading this weekly blog include, “Wow!  What a great idea!” and, “I never thought of it that way!” and “That guy should be institutionalized!”

 

This is one of those “Wow!  What a great idea!” moments.

 

Each year, on The Eastern Shore, creative folks gather to compete with their homemade trebuchets, as there is no outlet for purchase of trebuchets near our home.

 

These devices were used extensively in the Middle Ages, roughly the 1300’s, to toss stuff over the walls of castles under siege.  In essence, these devices were the heavy artillery of the time.

 

Large boulders and bodies infected with diseases would be launched into the supposedly safe confines of the fortified ramparts, only to find a dilemma of what to do with the biological weapon of the time.

 

According to history, trebuchets, also known as catapults, found a niche in warfare whose only downfall was mobility.

 

It seems as though the illegal alien problem in America has been brought to the forefront by a viable presidential candidate named Donald Trump.  This problem is not new, as is evidenced in Nannygate. 

 

For you youngsters, or those with poor memories, Nannygate was the result of the 1993 nomination for the United States Attorney General by our first black president, William Jefferson Clinton.

 

He nominated federal judge Zoe Baird for consideration, who quickly withdrew because of her employing several illegal aliens as housekeepers and nannies.  Immediately thereafter, President Clinton nominated Kimba Wood, another judge who also employed illegal aliens.  It appeared to be an epidemic.

 

Finally, he decided to nominate swimsuit model Janet Reno, instead.  She got the job.

 

But after all these years – twenty-two, to be exact – the problem remains and the hand-wringing continues.

 

An idea to build a fence along the border was met with snarls of disapproval by illegal aliens.  Go figure.

 

That fence would cost too much, and the monies to build it would have to come from the services given to these law-breakers.  Free housing, education, food, telephones, and medical care would have to be cut, but that would be unfair to the criminals who broke into America.

 

Here’s my idea.  Build the fence with the admission fees of, let’s say $10 per person.

 

Admission, you say?  This is where those trebuchets come in.

 

Line them up against the border fence and load them with illegal aliens.

 

It could be a new hobby that would keep those clever mechanical geniuses in business, year-round.  Rather than just pumpkin chunking, those ancient artillery pieces could be used for illegal alien chunking.

 

You’re welcome.

Shake ‘n Bake

My sainted wife says she hates “reality shows.”  That is until it comes to the cooking contest “reality shows.”

 

I put those words in quotes because there is nothing real about them except the time wasted watching them.

 

To satisfy my curiosity – much like slowing to look at a train wreck – I, too watch them.  They are, at best, hokey because they are all staged to keep the viewers coming back for more.

 

Akin to penance for burning pork chops at home, audience members watch amateur chefs and wanna-be cooks week after week until the winner is named to the same grunts.

 

“I can’t believe they won!?!” is the usual response following the finale.

 

Of course, this was not by chance.  I have a better chance of being named the next pope, than some of these contestants winning.

 

They are too predictable.  The contestants are always a mixed bag of weird and seem to conform to a long-standing formula to attract viewers.  For some reason, the series run must reflect society.  Likely, this is to maintain viewers who will cheer or jeer for certain contestants.

 

You will notice some people vying for the prize are meek, some are brash, others are arrogant, and at least one contestant is an egomaniac.

 

Each has a story of woe.  They were raised by a single mother, or they swam – blindfolded - from Thailand to California to compete, or they had a leg bitten-off while saving a toddler from an alligator attack.

 

And, the social experiment continues with the make-up of the show itself.

 

Here’s what you’ll see: one funky white guy, one hunky white guy, one fairly attractive white woman, one Latino woman or man, one fearsome-looking black guy, one black lesbian, one timid white woman bedecked with tattoos, and one white woman with wildly-dyed hair.  At least one of this cast of misfits will wear a stupid hat of some sort.  And, lest we forget about the flamboyantly gay guy who is obligated to lisp and swish.

 

Throughout the course of each contest tempers will flare, romances will start and end, someone will get their feelings hurt, a few will brag about their skills and abilities, and all will believe they can actually prevail over the rest.

 

These “chefs” will duke it out throughout the course of time and eventually be eliminated by their popularity.  However, the trouble-makers are guaranteed to remain until the last two episodes just to enable them to create turmoil and excitement.

 

Sure, I’ll continue to watch and my sainted wife will remain loyal but, not to see who wins.  Rather, I’ll watch to see if my wagering will pay off.

Perplexing II

“Perplexing” is the best way to describe my feelings lately.  The media directing their hand-picked stories to the masses for consumption has not changed as those stories have a bias that remains anti-conservative.

 

Over the past six months we have witnessed riots around the nation, caused by miscreants who like to complain about everything and nothing.

 

Most of those trouble makers are native to the areas they looted and burned, and have no one to blame but themselves.  Alas, they do.

 

At the first sign of mayhem, the police are called in to quell any property destruction and injury to lives.  The residents then complain that the police presence made them angry to the point they needed to throw cinder blocks through store windows.  Burning police vehicles didn’t hurt with this calming process.

 

It seems all this destruction was the result of a criminal being shot while not complying with orders.  That is perplexing.

 

The masses then invented a new phrase that actually didn’t apply to the situation at-hand.  “Hands up, don’t shoot,” was the propaganda that spewed across the nation to intimate the police shot an innocent black man.  He was black, but not necessarily innocent.

 

After several months of this tripe, the message became, “Black lives matter.”

 

Such a statement, while true, only goes part way to defining the situation.  When a similar phrase, “All lives matter,” was added by white neighbor constituents, the hoopla began, again.

 

The new cry was that “only black lives mattered.”  Even those white people who stood in solidarity with and among the grieving blacks were not recognized.  This is perplexing, too.

 

Which led me to a thought I had because of more news that wasn’t news at all.

 

I was born a man and plan on remaining one for the balance of my life.  I certainly don’t begrudge anyone from leading their life in any form whatsoever.  I recall a story of a Pennsylvania man who lives his life as a dog.

 

So it was with interest that I heard all the hype of an Olympian star who decided he wanted to live his life as a she.

 

All the news organizations and MSNBC picked up this story and ran with it for weeks.  Bruce Jenner, whose latest claim to fame is his marriage to the Kardashian clan, apparently felt his life would be better if he sat down to pee.

 

Interview upon interview upon interview found him telling fawning TV hosts he wanted to be a woman.

 

The big coming-out announcement occurred and he made a splash on the news and on magazine covers.

 

Bedecked in a gown wearing full makeup, and sporting tasteful jewels, he again gave interview after interview.  Comedians used him as fodder.  And the LGBT community hailed him as a “hero.”

 

This is where I realize you are thinking I made a mistake by referring to him as a him.

 

Mr. Jenner is still Mr. Jenner.  And he will remain so until his gonadectomy is done.  Otherwise he is just a man wearing a chiffon dress with satin high heels.  Perplexing, indeed.