Stupider and Stupider

Just recently I read about a young man who was in the midst of passing around a petition to get California to secede from the United States of America.  This guy, who appeared to be in his mid-twenties, insisted this move was good for California; this guy is from California.

He had lots of answers, albeit half-baked, when it came time to explain financial matters, immigration issues, military protection, and the interstate highway system.  He wanted out.  Period.

Sure this secession would be good, but not for California.  The state is run by aging communists and socialists, hippies, do-gooders, and illegal immigrants.  They are largely in debt because of all their social programs and socialist grants to solve planet Earth problems related to the environment, and fund anyone with an extended hand looking for a freebie.  The United States government picks up the balance of their frivolities for which California cannot afford.

The country would change its name to the Nearly United States of America, but the good news is that most of the country would stand for the National Anthem.

So it was with interest that I also read a news story concerning the invasion of people in California making their way to their local hospitals.  From a Redding, California, television station news website, people were crowding emergency rooms because of the recent solar eclipse.

Don’t get ahead of me.  It’s not likely what you think.

Sure, their eyes were burning, but that was because – drum roll, please – they didn’t buy those cheesy cardboard solar eclipse glasses.  No, they instead put sun screen on their eyeballs to protect themselves from looking at the Sun.

Yep.  No lie.  I can’t make this stuff up.

It seems as though these mental giants opted for a budget solution to viewing the solar eclipse of a lifetime.  It was broadcast over both network and cable TV for hours.  No one needed to look up, but they did.

Now, they are in a heap of hurt – until the next solar eclipse in 2024, that is.  You know these dolts will repeat their bone-headed stunt in seven years.  But I digress.

I must admit I never, ever thought about putting sun screen in my eyes, for any reason whatsoever, much less to stare at the Sun.

According to the Center for Disease Control, getting sunscreen in your eyes will not cause permanent eye damage.  It will make you wish you weren’t so stupid as to apply it to your eyeballs, though.

The pain should subside in a couple of days.  Yea!

But, California seceding would appear to help the other 49 states’ in their effort to lower health insurance costs.  I’m just saying.  Now secession sounds really promising.

Seeya!

Lightning

Each year at tax time, without fail, some news story will rise to the top of all others.  Invariably that story will focus on the person who feels overburdened; to make that point, they wind up paying their assessment in pennies.

Equally as entertaining are those non-tax time stories about local municipalities who really, really need the money and the taxee doesn’t.  So the taxee gets creative by wheeling a wheel barrow into the tax assessor’s office, closely followed by the eager media.

Camera flashes and guffaws from onlookers fill the television.  A startled, bespectacled clerk in a flowered nylon dress completes this scene, with the narrating news-readers smiling about how all that loose change will occupy the valuable civil servant time.

People like me cheer those rebels of local government because of the creativity and arrogance.  Because the money turned over is legal tender, it must be accepted.  Pesos and Euros are not adequate.

Here is where today’s story begins. 

I am a regular lottery player.  The Powerball and Megamillions are two games that eagerly await my money each week.  Now some readers are laughing at me because what I am doing is paying a “voluntary” tax.

This cash is nothing more than a vehicle to fill the state and local government coffers with money from idiots like me, gleefully sauntering into my favorite lottery-selling store, and plunking down a couple of bucks.

I don’t complain, carp, tear up, or whine; I just hand over the money with a smile.  And each week I discover I didn’t win, again.  And again I go out to pay more voluntary tax for the next drawing.

But today is different.  This next Powerball drawing, for August 23^rd, has an estimated jackpot, for one winner, of $650,000,000.

 

Of course, we must pay taxes on the winnings.  Federal tax alone is roughly $247,000,000!  That’s more money than I spend on cat litter each year.  But I digress.

To sum this up, we pay a voluntary tax to buy a ticket, then we must pay a tax if we win.  No wonder people pay their taxes in nickels.

In any case, this is about the time when all those logical poor folks enthusiastically give people like me their personal sage advice.

They are quick to point out how my chances of getting struck by lightning are 12 times that of winning the lottery.  Or, to put is more succinctly, I could outrun Seabiscuit for the Triple Crown.

Still, to validate my own modest spending on entertainment, I simply look at my movie watching habits.

I subscribe to a mail-order movie service.  I spend $11 per month to get movies sent to my door from a place we’ll refer to as Getflix, whose name I cleverly hid.

Over the years, my sainted wife and I have seen over three hundred Getflix movies and have only genuinely enjoyed perhaps eight. 

Those are disappointments to me, but just as with the lottery numbers, I get to select what I see, and the numbers that I play.  If I am disappointed, it’s my own fault.

But if I do win, I will arrive at Powerball Headquarters with a trailer to pick up my winnings I would like to receive in dollar bills.  Pity the bank.

So there you have it.  If you’re a lottery player and actually do win the jackpot, remember all those naysayers and lighting statistic enthusiasts.

And say. “Hey,” for me.

Off to the Pokey

Who says there is no good news? 

While trolling the internet, I noticed that our sophisticated British brethren are every bit as stupid and heartless as our New Jersey brethren on this side of “The Pond.”

In mid-July, East Londoners were holding something they call Lovebox Festival.  Evidently, this extravaganza is well-received and well-attended; this is where it gets good.

An enterprising 5-year old lass decided it was time for her to capitalize on this situation by setting up a lemonade stand along the foot route.

We at EasternShoreFishAndGame.com are protecting her identity because of her tender age, but not the facts.

The thorough police – whom are also known as “bobbys” – from Tower Hamlets, felt they needed to change their moniker to “boobys.” 

To accomplish this task, the British cops felt compelled to crack down on illegal activities within their purview.  In this instance it was the purveying of homemade lemonade.

Yup.

This type of behavior is usually reserved for public American toilets such as New York City, Chicago, and Washington, D.C.  Not wanting to be left out of the action, Tower Hamlet bobbies decided it was time to make the arrest of the century, and the news.

It seems as though this felon-in-training was arrested by the local cops and fined $195.  The charge was “trading without a license.”

While I’m certain there is no other crime in Great Britain, and there are absolutely no scams being operated and directed toward unsuspecting Brits, this collar was the crown jewel toward breaking the back of underground lemonade operations.

I can just imagine the scene back at the bobby station.

High-fives and smiles all around.  Chuckles about how their SWAT team clearly overcame adversity of a kindergartener armed with paper cups and drinking straws.

Normal people would applaud this young lady’s entrepreneurial spirit and drive.  On the other hand, the Tower Hamleters are likely dyed-in-the-wool socialists who typically frown upon citizens who try to make a living for themselves without sucking on the guvment teet.  Their motto?  Perhaps it’s “We’ll teach you a lesson in free enterprise!”

In any case, it’s good to see there are nitwits all around the world who continue to provide fodder for our blog.

Thank you, Tower Hamlet!

American, Please

Because I’m a little long-in-the-tooth, mobility is not what it once was.  In high school, I ran the half-mile in track; it has since been changed to the “880 meter run,” something that was desperately needed because of the metric system.

It seems that the half-mile and 880 meters are one in the same but, to make our north-of-the-border, and south-of-the-border folks feel more welcome, we have slowly adopted the metric system of ruining America.

My sainted wife and I decided that our status as relics deserved a treat, so we opted for a new toilet in the guest powder room.  My sainted wife calls it the powder room because it sounds nicer than bathroom. 

I don’t think it is anywhere nearly as descriptive as it should be, because there’s not an iota of powder – talc or otherwise – to be found therein.  There is, however, a bathtub neatly situated inside.  But, I digress.

It was off to the giant hardware store to shop for powder room accoutrements.

Upon arrival, we were met with a compendium of lavatories suitable for most needs. Oddly enough, all were made of porcelain, and were white in color.

Stop laughing right now.  Back in the 1970’s style dictated kitchen and bath appliances be offered in harvest gold, and avocado green, along with white.  Matching tile and patterned linoleum flooring created a late-century train wreck motif that evoked nausea.

It so happens our house contains both the green and gold bathroom versions!

This shopping spree was to help make one powder room more comfortable by installing a taller, more elongated potty in lieu of the current round gold version.

It’s been a long time since I shopped for toilets; six decades, actually.  So, it was with amazement that I ran across more toilets than I could imagine.  It was time to enlist the aid of a store professional.

Alas, there was none so, we found Chip from the lawn mower department was willing to assist us.  Chip knew just a smidgen less about toilets than Smokey the cat.

He patiently read the information off the boxes to us, as though my sainted wife and I were Serbian refugees without the ability to form Basic English sentences.

He eventually reached the part that explained each flush used 3.8 liters of water.  Then, he went on to try to tell us this particular model was crafted in America.

But it was the 3.8 liter part that had me baffled.  Just how much was 3.8 liters?

So I asked Chip, “Just how much is 3.8 liters?”

Suddenly, Chips eyes glazed-over and began to swirl as if tiny tear eddies formed in his eyes.  Nearly 37 seconds crept by when I began calling him out of his trance.

“Chip!  Chip!  Chip!” with only modest success.

Apparently Chip was not the scholar his employer envisioned him as. 

I began thinking about all those packages bearing product pictures and copious writing crowded with both English and Spanish advertising.  Somewhere on that packaging there could surely be enough free space to include the American equivalent to 3.8 liters.

Surely I was wrong.  And so, I let the scholars among us buy all the toilets they wanted.  I will keep my harvest gold treasure for a while longer.

Over Roger

Over the past few months I have taken time out of my practicing for a roadside sobriety test to watch more television.

Part of our household’s watching habits include police shows.  There are programs that show cops attempting to stop speeders, negligent drivers cruising about without license plate lights, plus programs that stop people from driving inebriated, and those programs compiled with dash-cam videos in all sorts of post-stop shenanigans.

No matter what show we watch, though, the cops enjoy using cryptic vocal communications such as 10-7, 10-62, and 10-79.

Not being a cop, I have little clue as to what most of those codes mean, and my sainted wife is even more at sea.

Highway Patrol with Chief Dan Matthews

Although I grew up watching Highway Patrol in black and white in the early days of television, I learned something from Chief Dan Matthews, played by Broderick Crawford.

In those police cars were radios looking as though they came straight out of the Egyptian pyramids.  They were a version of a black Bakelite telephone receiver which required the speaker to gaze off into the sky while talking.

Sentences were in the variety of, “10-17 10-20 Spongecake Highway; 10-59 10-12.”

I learned 10-4 means “Okay”; 10-3 is “Stop transmitting”; 10-7 is “Out of service”; 10-20 represents “Location”; and 10-95 is “Subject in custody.”

Sure, all this seems puzzling to the police novice, but years of practice allowed me to learn these codes, much in the same vein as one would learn French.

My sainted wife, however, is too impatient to use a learning curve to make watching these police programs more informational and enjoyable.

Our conversation throughout is usually, “What did he say?” or, “Is he going for doughnuts?”

Even more confusing is the next level, the Eleven Code.  Ten Codes are special; Eleven Codes are even more special.  I’m not even going to breach the “Code Signals.”  No kidding.

In full disclosure, these codes have been in use since the police radio systems began use in the 1920’s.  This was an effort to abbreviate yakking on the radio, and make messages more concise, while hopefully eliminating confusion.

While this tack may be helpful to police, fire, and EMS personnel, it is generally baffling to civilians seeking emergency news via radio scanners and watching television shows incorporating them in their storylines.

But here’s the rub.  These codes, although used by police departments nation-wide, are not standardized.

Very often the codes used by local police agencies are different from those used by the state police, EMS, and even the local sheriff.

So, in theory, all this code business is better than dry socks on a wet day.  Still, it is not standardized which could possibly lead to terrible miscommunication in critical and dire situations.

10-7.

Random Thoughts V

Time has arrived for more astute observations from yours truly.  Indeed, the vodka was flowing freely as were the ever-popular random thoughts.  This is the fifth iteration, indicated by the Roman numeral “V”, which is representative for 5.  Think of the Superbowl numbering.

• Why are there so few Episcopalian suicide bombers?
• Where is Colin Kaepernick working these days?  Want fries with that burger?
• Corvettes shouldn’t be that expensive.  They’ve been made since 1953, after all.
• I wish toilet paper was stronger.
• What makes all the stuff in the back of the fridge turn blue?
• Does the deaf guy select the background music for Walmart?
• I really hate mimes.
• If dolphins are so smart, why can’t they invent scissors to cut themselves out of fishing nets?
• There are so many stupid people in the world.
• The word “racist” now means “You disagree with me.”
• They put a computer and 1000 songs inside my cell phone; how about inventing a watch battery that lasts more than a year?
• Isn’t St. Valentine’s Day a religious holiday?  How about that separation of church and state?
• Let’s not forget about Christmas.
• College grads are unable to find jobs.  How’s that Master’s degree in 17^th Century English Poets working out for you?
• It would appear as though Maxine Waters is off her meds again.
• My wife just got ‘carded’ at the wine store; she’s not in high school, either.
• I nearly won the $400,000,000 Powerball!  I just missed by six numbers.
• The garage wanted to “rotate tires” on my truck.  I told them they rotate themselves when I drive.  Thanks anyway.
• Most politicians had better be sprucing up their résumés.  There’s another election right around the corner.
• Why isn’t Hillary Clinton in a federal prison?
• The mainstream media never heard of Donna Brazil.
• The mainstream media is like an LP record skip with the words “Russian collusion.”
• Didn’t Eric Holder illegally send assault weapons to Mexican drug lords and gangs?  But that’s not collusion.
• Winter is too cold.
• Street thugs are cowards for using guns.  How about a good fist fight to settle a score?
• Nothing says ‘I want this job’ like a giant spider tattoo climbing out of your shirt collar.
• Please note:  Nose rings and eyebrow studs are just a bonus.
• You want $15 and hour for screwing up my order at some fast food joint?
• I’d spit in YOUR food for only $4 and hour.
• Is Saab still in business?
• Shhh!  If you listen, you can hear the death knell for Sears and Kmart.  RIP.
• Summer is too hot.
• Are there enough letters In LGBTQ?  And what does the “Q” stand for?  I thought that word was offensive.
• Do they make bandage strips for black people?
• I used to hate Mondays when I was working.  And I used to love Fridays.
• Now, everyday is the same.  No stress.
• Gas is cheap everywhere in America except for the Eastern Shore.  Why?
• Are figs on the ‘endangered species’ list?  Why are they so expensive?
• Fox News Channel is on the road to self-destruction.  They changed the best of their lineup to likely commit suicide.
• God bless President Donald Trump!

Thanks for visiting and reading.  Come back next week for more good stuff.  And just for the summer, all our stories are FREE!

Waste of Time

When businesses promise things they really can’t deliver, they call it “overselling.”

Overselling is not something to take lightly.  For instance, driverless cars are being promised but, they are no closer to being reality than flying gas ranges.  Still, we are told they are just around the corner.

I think it would be great if I could visit my local watering hole for some Olympic-class drinking.  Then, I could climb into my self-driving Yugo for a safe trip home.  Along the way, a state trooper might stop me to learn why I was seated in the passenger portion, rather than the driver’s area, where the steering wheel and other driving necessities are located.

All this has the makings of a sitcom episode.  Yet, it is overselling those miraculous vehicles which may, or may not, be available upon my demise.

Because I loved it since I was a little kid, it was with interest that I read about the National Aeronautics Space Administration’s big announcement of an upcoming rocket launch.

In early spring, NASA plastered the news with stories about a rocket experiment based upon something they dubbed Terrier-Improved Malemute Mission.

Not only does it contain lots of big words, they are also generally undefined and sufficiently vague.

This mission was promised to launch a rocket into the sky then, after 3 to 5 minutes, some soda can-sized canisters would be deployed to explode and dazzle people from New York State to North Carolina.  You see, these canisters contained various chemicals that would turn vivid colors and amaze the less-educated among us.  The more astute would be studying cloud drift and effects of the wind on these brilliant vapors.

This whole exercise began in some weeks ago, with a series of errors postponing this scientific exercise.

Excuses such as too many clouds, too much rain, not enough clouds, some crabbing boat in the launch zone, a sailboat convoy passing through the Eastern Shore, Father’s Day celebration, a Delmarva Shorebird’s loss, the dog ate the launch codes, Uber was running late, and my car wouldn’t start, were just a few reasons for the delays.

Finally, today, June 29^th, that Terrier-Improved Malemute Mission was scheduled to launch.

My sainted wife, Smokey, and I, were the only stirring creatures awake for the 4:25 AM launch.  That’s right, 4:25 in the morning.  This is the 14^th try, and I was prepared for each launch.

Bleacher-style seating on my deck provided a viewing platform second-to-none.  All three of us took our places in anticipation of this spectacular, once-in-a-lifetime showing presented by the nation’s premier rocket launching agency.  I suppose it’s the only rocket launching agency.  But I digress.

A portable marine radio helped listen to the communications over the horizon with a United States Coast Guard representative barking out orders and times.

This is where it is good to point-out I live six miles from NASA’s Wallops Island launch facility.  The only thing blocking my view is a stand of gnarly old trees.  Otherwise, my view would be perfect.

The Coast Guard voice crackled over the radio, “T-Minus 30 seconds.”

I squirmed in my seat in anticipation of a breathtaking vision.  Then, “T-

Minus 10, 9, 8…”

And so it went until we saw a flash across the near pitch-black sky, and then heard the delayed sound of the engines firing.  Smokey stared at the cherry-red ball, and even my sainted wife took notice.

We patiently waited for the prescribed three minutes, then five, six, and seven. Eight minutes passed and we realized it was too dark to see anything.  The Coast Guard ceased broadcasting, a neighborhood dog began barking, and Smokey became bored.

It was at this time I realized we were amidst one of those overselling moments.

Morning website reports posted photos of the colorful dots of clods in the sky; we saw nothing.  If I was unable to see this spectacular, I’ll wager New Yorkers and North Carolinians were equally handicapped.

I now hate NASA.