Thursday, December 19, 2013
Adios
There are problems with my blog. Not the blog itself, which is pristine and impossible to even remotely duplicate. The problems are technical in nature. Since I am a technophobe, I'm going to avoid it for a while, to see if it goes away, like the common cold. I must say that BlogSpot, and the Almighty Google itself, are less than helpful to anyone who isn't computer literate, but I'm not complaining. I'm just bitching.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Peter Seamus O'Toole is Dead
Peter O'Toole was one of those guys you would have liked to have known. He was handsome, clever, talented, and drank too much. A man much like myself, I might say, if I were so immodest. Some day, the blogosphere will be reeling with the news that Wormstooth is dead. Don't cry, it's not happening any time soon, but it will happen. It's not healthy to dwell upon such things, and we are actually encouraged to never think about death. If you talk about it too much, people will start to look at you with ill-concealed concern. After all, why would you think about something that is at least as significant as your birth, and as inevitable as the coming and going of the tide?
I worked in a cemetery when I was young, and buried a few people. And, one time, many years later, I had to verify that someone who appeared to be dead, who was totally unresponsive, was indeed dead. Incredibly, it occurred to me to ask for a hand mirror, which I placed before the mouth and nose of the recently departed, to prove to his grieving widow that he was really gone. He was gone.
As you get older, you begin to realize that the finish line is a lot closer than you'd like it to be, but you also know that there's not much you can do about it, other than diet, exercise, dress too young for your age, dye your hair an unnatural color, and suck in your gut just before you look in a mirror that some day won't register any moisture from your lungs.
When I was a boy, my Uncle Howie's dog died. That night, it occurred to me that, some day, people I loved would die, and I cried myself to sleep.
I worked in a cemetery when I was young, and buried a few people. And, one time, many years later, I had to verify that someone who appeared to be dead, who was totally unresponsive, was indeed dead. Incredibly, it occurred to me to ask for a hand mirror, which I placed before the mouth and nose of the recently departed, to prove to his grieving widow that he was really gone. He was gone.
As you get older, you begin to realize that the finish line is a lot closer than you'd like it to be, but you also know that there's not much you can do about it, other than diet, exercise, dress too young for your age, dye your hair an unnatural color, and suck in your gut just before you look in a mirror that some day won't register any moisture from your lungs.
When I was a boy, my Uncle Howie's dog died. That night, it occurred to me that, some day, people I loved would die, and I cried myself to sleep.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Eating Cats
I just ate a dish of corned beef hash and fried eggs. Slathered in ketchup. I'm not supposed to consume much sodium, or cholesterol. Or alcohol, or sunshine. I have high blood pressure and skin cancer, but both are under control, so the literary world can breathe a sigh of relief. I plan to annoy people for many years to come, especially my doctors, some of whom I've already outlived. I can survive on pure stubbornness for the foreseeable future.
As I was enjoying my banquet, hot off the cast iron pan, and lubricated with cold beer, I wondered what this so-called "hash" really was. The producers say it consists of beef, rehydrated potatoes, sugar, and enough salt in various forms to dry up Lake Michigan. In today's world, in a "developed" country, one must have faith that what they tell you is true. In the old days, I would have made the hash myself, with my own butchered beef, home-grown potatoes, and salt bought or stolen from wherever people used to get salt. Today, it's far less complicated. You just have to have faith in your food, like you have to have faith in the dollar. Atheists laugh at people who have faith in God, in Jesus, in Muhammad, Krishna, and all the countless other objects of their devotions. Yet those same people have faith in our monetary system. They have faith that, when they drive seventy miles an hour on the highway, their vehicle won't fail miserably, fall apart, and result in a horrific jumble of metal and plastic that is the final punctuation mark of their lives. They believe in hash, and that their car won't turn them into it.
Years ago, I was lucky enough to travel in Italy for a few weeks. My wife speaks Italian, and strikes up a conversation with anyone who stops to listen. We were on a train, traveling across endless barren lands, between glorious cities. A friendly young woman spoke casually to us, advising us on the best places to see in her country. We were hippies, my wife in a pony tail and beads, me with a half-grown beard and bell-bottom jeans. She studied us with obvious, but not rude, curiosity. One of the bits of advice she gave us was, "If you visit Torino, when you order steak, make sure it's a big piece. Small pieces of meat may be cat." We didn't go to Torino, but the advice stuck with me all these years.
I don't know why, but that lovely hash I just enjoyed reminded me of that long train ride during that hot, dry summer afternoon in Italy, listening with rapt attention, breathing the arid air that came all the way from Ethiopia. Americans call Torino "Turin", for some reason. Anyway, if you go, avoid the chipped beef.
As I was enjoying my banquet, hot off the cast iron pan, and lubricated with cold beer, I wondered what this so-called "hash" really was. The producers say it consists of beef, rehydrated potatoes, sugar, and enough salt in various forms to dry up Lake Michigan. In today's world, in a "developed" country, one must have faith that what they tell you is true. In the old days, I would have made the hash myself, with my own butchered beef, home-grown potatoes, and salt bought or stolen from wherever people used to get salt. Today, it's far less complicated. You just have to have faith in your food, like you have to have faith in the dollar. Atheists laugh at people who have faith in God, in Jesus, in Muhammad, Krishna, and all the countless other objects of their devotions. Yet those same people have faith in our monetary system. They have faith that, when they drive seventy miles an hour on the highway, their vehicle won't fail miserably, fall apart, and result in a horrific jumble of metal and plastic that is the final punctuation mark of their lives. They believe in hash, and that their car won't turn them into it.
Years ago, I was lucky enough to travel in Italy for a few weeks. My wife speaks Italian, and strikes up a conversation with anyone who stops to listen. We were on a train, traveling across endless barren lands, between glorious cities. A friendly young woman spoke casually to us, advising us on the best places to see in her country. We were hippies, my wife in a pony tail and beads, me with a half-grown beard and bell-bottom jeans. She studied us with obvious, but not rude, curiosity. One of the bits of advice she gave us was, "If you visit Torino, when you order steak, make sure it's a big piece. Small pieces of meat may be cat." We didn't go to Torino, but the advice stuck with me all these years.
I don't know why, but that lovely hash I just enjoyed reminded me of that long train ride during that hot, dry summer afternoon in Italy, listening with rapt attention, breathing the arid air that came all the way from Ethiopia. Americans call Torino "Turin", for some reason. Anyway, if you go, avoid the chipped beef.
Friday, December 13, 2013
A Soldier Hiding in the Woods
Cold and darkly slips the creek,
to sleek the stones that love the ground,
as through the piny branches sound
the secret whisperings of the wind.
The moon swims in the water's shine.
The sky says nothing many times,
but dances just behind the pines,
and never laughs, but only grins.
One lonely heartbeat whimpers by,
at war with love, on wounded wings,
and deaf to simply quiet things
like loving stones and smiling wind.
Obviously insane little birds fly by,
and cry, "But why? But why?"
to sleek the stones that love the ground,
as through the piny branches sound
the secret whisperings of the wind.
The moon swims in the water's shine.
The sky says nothing many times,
but dances just behind the pines,
and never laughs, but only grins.
One lonely heartbeat whimpers by,
at war with love, on wounded wings,
and deaf to simply quiet things
like loving stones and smiling wind.
Obviously insane little birds fly by,
and cry, "But why? But why?"
How to Avoid Winning the Lottery
The Mega Millions lottery prize has reached about $400,000,000. After taxes, your lump sum payout would come to well over $200,000,000. The odds are approximately 278 bajillion to one. Seems fair to me, so I took the plunge.
I've read of people who won big lottery jackpots and promptly ruined their lives. They stopped hanging out with their real friends, because no one could afford to keep up with them. It's called an embarrassment of riches. If you walk into the local pub, everyone knows who you are, and there's a palpable expectation in the smelly, urine-tainted air that you will set up the bar all around for folks who never gave you the time of day. If you buy a Mercedes, they'll ask why you didn't buy a Ferrari.
You can't live in your old neighborhood, because everyone will resent your wealth, and assume that you're only staying there to flaunt your good fortune, to rub their noses in it. So you move away to the most expensive place you can find, where nobody talks to you because you are nouveau-riche, and obviously lack the type of class required for acceptance in the Country Club. You never liked golf anyway, but still.
What to do? You could buy an island and sit under a coconut tree all day. You could buy a yacht and sail around the seven seas, a man without a country. You've become a prisoner of your wealth, and worry all night long about kidnappers plotting to steal your loved ones and kill them unless you give the scoundrels all your money. It would serve them right if you gave them all of it. Then they could suffer just like you!
One poor guy actually committed suicide because he couldn't handle the burden of wealth. Others have spent the money so recklessly that they wound up with nothing, and even went bankrupt. I'm telling you all this out of a feeling of concern. It's easy to see how money can ruin your life, leaving you a poor, lonely wretch, a pathetic shell of what you once were.
Fortunately, (no pun intended), there's a surefire way to avoid the many pitfalls that go with extraordinary luck. Don't buy a ticket. I'm willing to bear the cross myself, in my own humble way. I'll let you know if it happens, as soon as I stop screaming with joy.
I've read of people who won big lottery jackpots and promptly ruined their lives. They stopped hanging out with their real friends, because no one could afford to keep up with them. It's called an embarrassment of riches. If you walk into the local pub, everyone knows who you are, and there's a palpable expectation in the smelly, urine-tainted air that you will set up the bar all around for folks who never gave you the time of day. If you buy a Mercedes, they'll ask why you didn't buy a Ferrari.
You can't live in your old neighborhood, because everyone will resent your wealth, and assume that you're only staying there to flaunt your good fortune, to rub their noses in it. So you move away to the most expensive place you can find, where nobody talks to you because you are nouveau-riche, and obviously lack the type of class required for acceptance in the Country Club. You never liked golf anyway, but still.
What to do? You could buy an island and sit under a coconut tree all day. You could buy a yacht and sail around the seven seas, a man without a country. You've become a prisoner of your wealth, and worry all night long about kidnappers plotting to steal your loved ones and kill them unless you give the scoundrels all your money. It would serve them right if you gave them all of it. Then they could suffer just like you!
One poor guy actually committed suicide because he couldn't handle the burden of wealth. Others have spent the money so recklessly that they wound up with nothing, and even went bankrupt. I'm telling you all this out of a feeling of concern. It's easy to see how money can ruin your life, leaving you a poor, lonely wretch, a pathetic shell of what you once were.
Fortunately, (no pun intended), there's a surefire way to avoid the many pitfalls that go with extraordinary luck. Don't buy a ticket. I'm willing to bear the cross myself, in my own humble way. I'll let you know if it happens, as soon as I stop screaming with joy.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Hola, Mexico!
I'm just wondering, who is reading this blog from Mexico. Yo hablo Espanol, poqueno. Pero, estan muchos anos quando yo esta en la esquela, y yo estoy un poco stupido!
Baby, It's Cold Outside
It's not technically winter yet, but here in New England it sure feels like it. The Sun goes down at about 4:30. Well, no, the Sun doesn't actually move at all. The pretty blue marble we call Earth is revolving and spinning around the Sun, and makes it appear that our warm and light-giving friend is saying goodbye. When we finish our daily spin, the good old shining Sun will be there for us, just like always.
Scientists, the magical wizards of the modern world, tell us that the spinning of our home planet cause our days and nights, while the revolution causes the seasons. We all know that, some time ago, the Church persecuted anyone who suggested that the Earth was not the center of the Universe. But, hey, it was an honest mistake. In those days, popes, priests, and bishops were in complete charge of all knowledge, and it was considered a horrifying madness to disagree with them. If you spoke against the wisdom of the protectors of the faith, you might even be, (dare I say it?), Possessed By The Devil!!!
Today, there are a lot of people who say the entire solar system was created in seven days, about seven thousand years ago. They don't believe scientists who say that, by carbon dating, they can tell that mankind alone is much older than that, to say nothing of dinosaurs that lived millions of years ago. Some even go so far as to say that these dinosaur bones have been planted by scientists as part of an elaborate hoax, designed to shake believers in the Bible.
I'll be perfectly honest with you. I know personally that God exists, and that the whole Universe loves all of us, no matter what kind of jerks we are. Don't ask me to clarify. It's none of your business. And that's my point. If you are sure that God exists, or if you feel the need to believe in God for your own peace of mind, just do it, man! Know it or believe it! Just don't think you need a book or a travelogue to guide you through life. Goodness is obvious. Evil sucks. Do you need proof of goodness? Just look out your window. The whole world and the sun and the moon and the stars are manifest goodness, if you just pay attention. Do you need proof of evil? Watch the news.
Scientists, the magical wizards of the modern world, tell us that the spinning of our home planet cause our days and nights, while the revolution causes the seasons. We all know that, some time ago, the Church persecuted anyone who suggested that the Earth was not the center of the Universe. But, hey, it was an honest mistake. In those days, popes, priests, and bishops were in complete charge of all knowledge, and it was considered a horrifying madness to disagree with them. If you spoke against the wisdom of the protectors of the faith, you might even be, (dare I say it?), Possessed By The Devil!!!
Today, there are a lot of people who say the entire solar system was created in seven days, about seven thousand years ago. They don't believe scientists who say that, by carbon dating, they can tell that mankind alone is much older than that, to say nothing of dinosaurs that lived millions of years ago. Some even go so far as to say that these dinosaur bones have been planted by scientists as part of an elaborate hoax, designed to shake believers in the Bible.
I'll be perfectly honest with you. I know personally that God exists, and that the whole Universe loves all of us, no matter what kind of jerks we are. Don't ask me to clarify. It's none of your business. And that's my point. If you are sure that God exists, or if you feel the need to believe in God for your own peace of mind, just do it, man! Know it or believe it! Just don't think you need a book or a travelogue to guide you through life. Goodness is obvious. Evil sucks. Do you need proof of goodness? Just look out your window. The whole world and the sun and the moon and the stars are manifest goodness, if you just pay attention. Do you need proof of evil? Watch the news.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Mandela
Nelson Mandela got a world-class sendoff today. More than one hundred world leaders gathered to pay homage. Mandela did 27 years in South African prisons because he objected to native South Africans, including himself, being relegated to second class beings, with no rights given to them by the ruling class, descendants of Dutchmen who heard of the country's rich natural resources and decided to hurry down there to take it for themselves.
Mandela first tried to change things by organizing protests. This was frowned upon. The Afrikaners, as the Dutchmen called themselves, had no interest in changing anything. They stole the country, fair and square, and that was that. After a while, Mandela decided they needed further persuasion. He resorted to violence, was arrested, and landed in the can for a good part of his life.
But a funny thing happened during his incarceration. He read books, he wrote letters, and he became a symbol of resistance to oppression all over the world. The system of Apartheid, which means this was all yours, but it's all mine now because I want it, was gradually exposed to the world for the fraud that it was. Artists refused to perform in the fabulous resorts in South Africa, and drummed up negative publicity to the point where Afrikaners finally gave up, let Mandela out of jail, and held democratic elections. Nelson Mandela was elected president of South Africa. But he didn't order the slaughter of his oppressors. He ordered full disclosure of what was done, and he ordered reconciliation. The true test of a man of peace is when he achieves power. He passed with flying colors.
Not surprisingly, the far right in America insists on calling him a communist and a terrorist, even though he renounced both beliefs while still in jail. The far right fears nothing more than a man of peace who speaks truth to the masses. No idea is more frightening to them than that people might see they can change the system through the power of truth. That's why Caesar knew he had to kill Jesus. You just can't have people walking around knowing that others only have power over you if you give it to them.
Any schoolyard bully can tell you that.
Mandela first tried to change things by organizing protests. This was frowned upon. The Afrikaners, as the Dutchmen called themselves, had no interest in changing anything. They stole the country, fair and square, and that was that. After a while, Mandela decided they needed further persuasion. He resorted to violence, was arrested, and landed in the can for a good part of his life.
But a funny thing happened during his incarceration. He read books, he wrote letters, and he became a symbol of resistance to oppression all over the world. The system of Apartheid, which means this was all yours, but it's all mine now because I want it, was gradually exposed to the world for the fraud that it was. Artists refused to perform in the fabulous resorts in South Africa, and drummed up negative publicity to the point where Afrikaners finally gave up, let Mandela out of jail, and held democratic elections. Nelson Mandela was elected president of South Africa. But he didn't order the slaughter of his oppressors. He ordered full disclosure of what was done, and he ordered reconciliation. The true test of a man of peace is when he achieves power. He passed with flying colors.
Not surprisingly, the far right in America insists on calling him a communist and a terrorist, even though he renounced both beliefs while still in jail. The far right fears nothing more than a man of peace who speaks truth to the masses. No idea is more frightening to them than that people might see they can change the system through the power of truth. That's why Caesar knew he had to kill Jesus. You just can't have people walking around knowing that others only have power over you if you give it to them.
Any schoolyard bully can tell you that.
Monday, December 09, 2013
The End Of Times
I have news of particular import. The world is about to end. This distressing news was given to me by a couple of very nice ladies who knocked on my door last week. They were quick to reassure me that, although Earth will be consumed by fire and damnation, I should not be too alarmed. Even though our bodies will be destroyed, to say nothing of our automobiles, houses, and Beatles memorabilia, we will not really die! We will rise heavenward in our pre-destruction state after the Rapture. This is when all the good folks who have subscribed to their publications rejoin our old friend, Jesus, in the clouds.
I envy people of faith. Not that I think they make any sense, but because they feel so secure in their mindset, secure in the knowledge that, if they only believe, their fondest wish will come true. They will never die. Not only that, but they will join all the loved ones they have lost, even their beloved pet turtle that they forgot to feed when they were kids.
We are all travelers through time. Here in the twenty-first century, in the Information Age, in the Era where all accumulated knowledge is literally at our fingertips, we still believe what we want to believe. To hell with the facts! Don't get me wrong. I'm not an atheist, a mystic, or a wise man. I'm not even really that smart. I'm just clever enough to know what I don't know, and that some things are just not knowable.
Here's a couple of free tips for you. Don't stand behind a flatulent camel. And don't listen to someone who tries to tell you they know the unknowable.
I envy people of faith. Not that I think they make any sense, but because they feel so secure in their mindset, secure in the knowledge that, if they only believe, their fondest wish will come true. They will never die. Not only that, but they will join all the loved ones they have lost, even their beloved pet turtle that they forgot to feed when they were kids.
We are all travelers through time. Here in the twenty-first century, in the Information Age, in the Era where all accumulated knowledge is literally at our fingertips, we still believe what we want to believe. To hell with the facts! Don't get me wrong. I'm not an atheist, a mystic, or a wise man. I'm not even really that smart. I'm just clever enough to know what I don't know, and that some things are just not knowable.
Here's a couple of free tips for you. Don't stand behind a flatulent camel. And don't listen to someone who tries to tell you they know the unknowable.
Sunday, December 08, 2013
Malaysia
This is an experiment. I'm titling this blog Malaysia to see if the computer trackers follow me even more if I mention the name of the nation they're based in. Malaysia! Quite frankly, it sounds like some sort of disease, something that you can cure with Pepto-Bismol, whatever that is. Malaysia! There, I've said it again. I don't know a single soul in Malaysia, and I don't even know what language they speak. Yes, people, I'm taunting malicious computers on the other side of the world. To be specific, they're in Malaysia! I'll keep you posted as to how this works out, unless, of course , they come to get me, in which case I'll be spirited away to Boston Harbor, wrapped in a canvas bundle, and shipped against my will to wherever Malaysia may be. I hope its nowhere near North Korea. Those guys are trapped in time, living two hundred years ago, with no idea what they're missing. Oh, my! Maybe I've pissed them off, too!
Saturday, December 07, 2013
Fleeting Fame
My readership has been growing by leaps and bounds, and now they have leaped out of bounds. If you're a blogger, you can check what country your readers come from, and how many times your blog is viewed. When my fan base began to grow exponentially, I figured it was time to see where they all came from. After all, you owe it to your rabid fans to at least acknowledge their existence. It's part of the heavy price we superstars pay for being in the galaxy that lesser folks can only observe in awestruck wonder.
After making my inquiries, I discovered that I had readers in Germany. Since I don't speak or write in fluent German, this puzzled me. Then I found that a large percentage of my followers were from Malaysia. Way more than from Germany. Upon further research, I saw that these weren't even people who were reading my posts. They're computer systems with names like vampirestat and secretsearch
that drive up your hits on your blog for whatever their own purposes are. Don't click on them or they'll take over your life, eat your lunch, and beat up your best friend, and stuff like that.
So, now I know what it feels like to be the girl that nobody dated in high school, who is asked to the Senior Prom by the handsome quarterback, goes out and buys a prom gown, and waits by the door as the hours slip by, until she finally realizes she was the victim of a cruel joke. What a jerk that quarterback was. She takes off the gown, throws it in the trash, and eats two quarts of fudge ripple ice cream.
Luckily for me, I don't write for a readership. I write to exercise my mind, and because in some twisted way, I enjoy it. Everyone should try writing. Psychiatrists say it's a good way to express things that linger in the cobwebs of the dungeons in your mind. If you do try it, I can guarantee you will at least have a strong fan base in Malaysia.
After making my inquiries, I discovered that I had readers in Germany. Since I don't speak or write in fluent German, this puzzled me. Then I found that a large percentage of my followers were from Malaysia. Way more than from Germany. Upon further research, I saw that these weren't even people who were reading my posts. They're computer systems with names like vampirestat and secretsearch
that drive up your hits on your blog for whatever their own purposes are. Don't click on them or they'll take over your life, eat your lunch, and beat up your best friend, and stuff like that.
So, now I know what it feels like to be the girl that nobody dated in high school, who is asked to the Senior Prom by the handsome quarterback, goes out and buys a prom gown, and waits by the door as the hours slip by, until she finally realizes she was the victim of a cruel joke. What a jerk that quarterback was. She takes off the gown, throws it in the trash, and eats two quarts of fudge ripple ice cream.
Luckily for me, I don't write for a readership. I write to exercise my mind, and because in some twisted way, I enjoy it. Everyone should try writing. Psychiatrists say it's a good way to express things that linger in the cobwebs of the dungeons in your mind. If you do try it, I can guarantee you will at least have a strong fan base in Malaysia.
Friday, December 06, 2013
Blame Game
I am one of the notorious Baby Boomers. There, I've said it, and it feels so good to confess! After World War Two, America was filled with exuberant optimism. The Nazis and the Fascists were defeated after epic battles all across the world. The war was so horrific, so huge, and so magnificent, it could have been written by J.R.R. Tolkien. The Forces of Good really defeated the forces of Evil!
A funny thing happened after the War. All the happiness, all the joy, began to show in a physical way nine months after the end of hostilities. A new generation was born, and in a very big way. Young brides were popping out babies all over America, one after another. Houses had to be built, cars had to be bought, food had to be produced, and America reconfigured her War machine into the strongest economy anyone had seen. Jobs were plentiful, at good wages, with pensions and health benefits thrown in. I was lucky enough to grow up in that time, thinking that my country was the greatest ever known, the Protector of the World. We believed the good guys always won, just like on TV.
Everything was new, and new was good. The politicians rode this tsunami of joy for years. The fact that certain formulas for covering the costs of all this fun were wrong, and just wouldn't work for the long run, were never mentioned, except by dismal economists with pen holders in their pockets. The party was slowly running out of punch, but no politician would hear it or say it. Baby Boomers built the Grand Economy and became the greatest consumers in history. That was their function, and they did it well.
Now, the bill for the party is coming due, and there's not enough in the cookie jar to pay for it. Who should be blamed? The Boomers, of course! It's their fault they were born all at once, and encouraged to spend, not save, because it made politicians and bankers and Corporate America look good every fiscal quarter. There's not enough money to pay for Social Security and other pensions because nobody would recognize the coming gloom during the brightness of the day. Boomers are blamed for America's crumbling infrastructure. Our highways and bridges are literally falling apart. The politicians of the next generation need a scapegoat and he is us.
Just for the record, it wasn't us that ran the party into the ground. It was the people who were supposed to be in charge who started wars without funding them, the people who saw the bridges fading and kicked the can down the road, the politicians who raided Social Security and union pensions for their own immediate benefit, knowing the bill would some day come due. These folks step quietly into the background, and wisely let the Boomers take the heat, just because they were there.
A funny thing happened after the War. All the happiness, all the joy, began to show in a physical way nine months after the end of hostilities. A new generation was born, and in a very big way. Young brides were popping out babies all over America, one after another. Houses had to be built, cars had to be bought, food had to be produced, and America reconfigured her War machine into the strongest economy anyone had seen. Jobs were plentiful, at good wages, with pensions and health benefits thrown in. I was lucky enough to grow up in that time, thinking that my country was the greatest ever known, the Protector of the World. We believed the good guys always won, just like on TV.
Everything was new, and new was good. The politicians rode this tsunami of joy for years. The fact that certain formulas for covering the costs of all this fun were wrong, and just wouldn't work for the long run, were never mentioned, except by dismal economists with pen holders in their pockets. The party was slowly running out of punch, but no politician would hear it or say it. Baby Boomers built the Grand Economy and became the greatest consumers in history. That was their function, and they did it well.
Now, the bill for the party is coming due, and there's not enough in the cookie jar to pay for it. Who should be blamed? The Boomers, of course! It's their fault they were born all at once, and encouraged to spend, not save, because it made politicians and bankers and Corporate America look good every fiscal quarter. There's not enough money to pay for Social Security and other pensions because nobody would recognize the coming gloom during the brightness of the day. Boomers are blamed for America's crumbling infrastructure. Our highways and bridges are literally falling apart. The politicians of the next generation need a scapegoat and he is us.
Just for the record, it wasn't us that ran the party into the ground. It was the people who were supposed to be in charge who started wars without funding them, the people who saw the bridges fading and kicked the can down the road, the politicians who raided Social Security and union pensions for their own immediate benefit, knowing the bill would some day come due. These folks step quietly into the background, and wisely let the Boomers take the heat, just because they were there.
Thursday, December 05, 2013
Medical Marijuana and the Nature of Evil
The Evil Weed is slowly becoming legal. This is how Satan makes his subtle inroads into our pristine lives! Next, they'll start letting homosexuals marry! Wait. What? That's already happening? And I didn't even know. That's the thing with evil. You don't even know it's there unless someone appoints himself to inform you! Some kinds of evil are obvious, like mass murder and gang rape. We don't need anyone to tell us that this is bad stuff. Things like that are so blatantly horrible that you know instinctively they are bad. You know that you should report such things, and scrupulously avoid the people who do this sort of stuff.
Other evils are harder to identify. You need folks who are well-read on the subject to keep you up to date. Otherwise, how would we know that if two people of the same sex decided to sleep together and, well, get together, that would immediately begin to tear apart the fabric of our society? I certainly had no idea, and I consider myself a pretty smart dude. Likewise, marijuana, the harmlessly named drug that, if smoked, will destroy your life, the lives of all around you, and eventually bring about the end of Western Civilization. I'm not making this up. It's been officially documented by the Federal Government since the 1920's, so it's obviously true.
I'm not going to say I've tried marijuana, or mention that I came of age in the sixties. Neither will I say that I used to light up first thing in the morning when my parents were away on vacation, put some Mozart on the stereo, and boil a couple of eggs for breakfast. That would be unseemly for a serious blogger such as myself. I'm just saying.
If you don't need the government or the church to tell you what to do, but are still looking for guidance, you can turn to the medical profession. They say that if you eat too much bacon, you will only live to the age of ninety-six and a half, instead of ninety-seven. Think how satisfying those last six months will be!
A negative person might point out that the medical profession used to use leeches to draw out the poison from a sick person's blood. They used to say that night air was poisonous, that cigarettes were OK, and that Thalidomide was good for pregnant women who were suffering from depression. I'm not a negative person, so I won't even bring those things up.
Other evils are harder to identify. You need folks who are well-read on the subject to keep you up to date. Otherwise, how would we know that if two people of the same sex decided to sleep together and, well, get together, that would immediately begin to tear apart the fabric of our society? I certainly had no idea, and I consider myself a pretty smart dude. Likewise, marijuana, the harmlessly named drug that, if smoked, will destroy your life, the lives of all around you, and eventually bring about the end of Western Civilization. I'm not making this up. It's been officially documented by the Federal Government since the 1920's, so it's obviously true.
I'm not going to say I've tried marijuana, or mention that I came of age in the sixties. Neither will I say that I used to light up first thing in the morning when my parents were away on vacation, put some Mozart on the stereo, and boil a couple of eggs for breakfast. That would be unseemly for a serious blogger such as myself. I'm just saying.
If you don't need the government or the church to tell you what to do, but are still looking for guidance, you can turn to the medical profession. They say that if you eat too much bacon, you will only live to the age of ninety-six and a half, instead of ninety-seven. Think how satisfying those last six months will be!
A negative person might point out that the medical profession used to use leeches to draw out the poison from a sick person's blood. They used to say that night air was poisonous, that cigarettes were OK, and that Thalidomide was good for pregnant women who were suffering from depression. I'm not a negative person, so I won't even bring those things up.
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Bankruptcy and the Mafia
The city of Detroit has been allowed to file for protection from bankruptcy by a federal judge. This means the city can now tell its creditors that it is sorry, but will not pay debts that were negotiated in good faith. The news is of particular interest to thousands of retirees who worked for the city under the assumption that the pension they were promised would indeed arrive, after they had worked a lifetime for it.
Young people are being brainwashed into thinking that unions and pensions are evils to be avoided. Nobody bothers to tell them that pensions were part of legally negotiated contracts, and that pensions were often accepted in return for a lower hourly wage. Charlatans claim that unions ruined the auto industry in America, when the exact opposite is true. The American auto was the envy of the world, until foreign companies began to compete with machines made by people who worked all day for next to nothing. American management's response was to cheapen their products to the point where no sane person in America wanted to buy one. The result was catastrophic for the entire industry. Workers were told the only choice was to lower the American standard of living, to downsize their dreams, to realize that it no longer mattered if you worked hard and saved your money. You had to learn to work for a bowl of rice a day and be grateful for it. In other words, go back in time to the 1920's, when someone who went on strike would get his head bashed in by hired goons. The heartfelt dream of Corporate America.
Which brings us to the question, was Detroit mismanaged? Of course it was. All cities are, as are most companies. Organizations generally prosper in spite of management, as long as conditions are favorable. Detroit has been crumbling for decades. You can buy a house in Detroit for less than it would cost for a garage for your car in most other cities. Nobody wants to live there. The folks who were elected to run the city have been floundering and failing relentlessly, and bankruptcy comes as no surprise, except that it took so long. The retirees have no choice now but to hope they don't get torn up too badly.
In America, we have what is spookily referred to as "The Underworld". In the Underworld, you can buy drugs, hire prostitutes, and make bets on literally anything, as big a bet as you dare to make. I know personally of two guys whose fathers made such bad bets that they had to sell their homes to pay them off. On the street, everyone knows you have to "do the right thing". You have to pay your debts. I'm glad I wasn't in the room when those guys told their wives what they had done. There is no such thing as bankruptcy in the Underworld. Saying you can't pay the debt you owe is signing up for a one- way ride in a cement canoe. Which wouldn't be a bad thing for those who mismanaged the finances of Detroit. It would be the right thing.
Young people are being brainwashed into thinking that unions and pensions are evils to be avoided. Nobody bothers to tell them that pensions were part of legally negotiated contracts, and that pensions were often accepted in return for a lower hourly wage. Charlatans claim that unions ruined the auto industry in America, when the exact opposite is true. The American auto was the envy of the world, until foreign companies began to compete with machines made by people who worked all day for next to nothing. American management's response was to cheapen their products to the point where no sane person in America wanted to buy one. The result was catastrophic for the entire industry. Workers were told the only choice was to lower the American standard of living, to downsize their dreams, to realize that it no longer mattered if you worked hard and saved your money. You had to learn to work for a bowl of rice a day and be grateful for it. In other words, go back in time to the 1920's, when someone who went on strike would get his head bashed in by hired goons. The heartfelt dream of Corporate America.
Which brings us to the question, was Detroit mismanaged? Of course it was. All cities are, as are most companies. Organizations generally prosper in spite of management, as long as conditions are favorable. Detroit has been crumbling for decades. You can buy a house in Detroit for less than it would cost for a garage for your car in most other cities. Nobody wants to live there. The folks who were elected to run the city have been floundering and failing relentlessly, and bankruptcy comes as no surprise, except that it took so long. The retirees have no choice now but to hope they don't get torn up too badly.
In America, we have what is spookily referred to as "The Underworld". In the Underworld, you can buy drugs, hire prostitutes, and make bets on literally anything, as big a bet as you dare to make. I know personally of two guys whose fathers made such bad bets that they had to sell their homes to pay them off. On the street, everyone knows you have to "do the right thing". You have to pay your debts. I'm glad I wasn't in the room when those guys told their wives what they had done. There is no such thing as bankruptcy in the Underworld. Saying you can't pay the debt you owe is signing up for a one- way ride in a cement canoe. Which wouldn't be a bad thing for those who mismanaged the finances of Detroit. It would be the right thing.
Tuesday, December 03, 2013
Posers, Hosers, Indecent Exposers
Someone said, "Politics is the last refuge of the scoundrel". That's one of those sentences you'd love to claim for your own, isn't it? In eight words it captures and describes all the leaders, lawmakers, and promise breakers all over the world.
It's one of those strange quirks in human nature that positions of power attract the exact people who should never be allowed outdoors without a guardian. Another quirky habit we have is that, no matter how obvious a bumbling nincompoop a person is, we will stand in line on a rainy day to hand over the reins to him, her, or it, as the case may be. This is called our Right To Vote. It's a way to let the masses think they're in charge of their lives. Now and then, people notice that nothing really changes, unless it gets worse. But that's OK. We have our Right To Vote!
I have often considered taking over the known world. Believe me, I would be a great Emperor of All I Survey. I would be kind to most of you, and forgive your trespasses as you forgive mine. Fat chance of that, eh?
The first inviolable rule would be to eliminate the color pink. It serves no purpose, and makes me queasy. On a more positive note, there would be beer and wine in all public fountains, and it will only rain at night, when it sounds nice if you're in a warm dry place. All dogs will run free, and all cats will be on a leash or confined to house arrest. Any animal that enjoys torturing birds and mice before it kills them shows a clear psychosis.
My most obvious qualification to gain your vote is that I can lie so convincingly I even believe myself. Yesterday, I wrote of my comfortable old farmhouse, my fireplace, and my faithful hound, none of which are real. This morning, I woke up in my real house. It's ninety- seven years old, and has no fireplace or hound or log pile in it. It's heated by a cranky old furnace, once fueled by coal, then converted to oil, then to gas. It's situated on what once was a potato farm, but it's no farmhouse.
My grandson just arrived, so I must resume my campaign for your trust at a later date. I hear the steam hissing from the old radiator, a comforting sound on a raw December day.
It's one of those strange quirks in human nature that positions of power attract the exact people who should never be allowed outdoors without a guardian. Another quirky habit we have is that, no matter how obvious a bumbling nincompoop a person is, we will stand in line on a rainy day to hand over the reins to him, her, or it, as the case may be. This is called our Right To Vote. It's a way to let the masses think they're in charge of their lives. Now and then, people notice that nothing really changes, unless it gets worse. But that's OK. We have our Right To Vote!
I have often considered taking over the known world. Believe me, I would be a great Emperor of All I Survey. I would be kind to most of you, and forgive your trespasses as you forgive mine. Fat chance of that, eh?
The first inviolable rule would be to eliminate the color pink. It serves no purpose, and makes me queasy. On a more positive note, there would be beer and wine in all public fountains, and it will only rain at night, when it sounds nice if you're in a warm dry place. All dogs will run free, and all cats will be on a leash or confined to house arrest. Any animal that enjoys torturing birds and mice before it kills them shows a clear psychosis.
My most obvious qualification to gain your vote is that I can lie so convincingly I even believe myself. Yesterday, I wrote of my comfortable old farmhouse, my fireplace, and my faithful hound, none of which are real. This morning, I woke up in my real house. It's ninety- seven years old, and has no fireplace or hound or log pile in it. It's heated by a cranky old furnace, once fueled by coal, then converted to oil, then to gas. It's situated on what once was a potato farm, but it's no farmhouse.
My grandson just arrived, so I must resume my campaign for your trust at a later date. I hear the steam hissing from the old radiator, a comforting sound on a raw December day.
Monday, December 02, 2013
How to Spend a December Afternoon
The snow is falling heavier now, and the wind is whipping it against the window pane. It's a damp early December snow, and it melts almost as soon as it is thrown against the warm glass, but it's beginning to pile up in the corners of the old wooden frame that has withstood winter's assaults in this old farmhouse for almost two centuries. I should have scraped and painted the window, and the whole house for that matter, this past summer and fall, but that's how it goes when you get old. My New England breeding trains me to prepare for the coming seasons, and they all need preparations, believe me. But at my age, you begin to think that maybe things are not as urgent as they originally seemed. Thus, there are cracks in the paint of the window, and the old wood is exposed to the harshness of New England's nastiest and most unforgiving season.
There's no sense fretting about it now. I'm relaxing in my grandfather's rocking chair, trying to decide which book to start reading. I buy books in bunches, stack them in a corner shelf, and work my way through them at my leisure. I'm down to Stephen King's sequel to "The Shining" that recently came out, called "Dr. Sleep", or "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens, which came out quite a while ago. I've seen the movie versions, all of them at least once, but never read the book, and this seems like a good time to give it a try.
My dog is looking at his water bowl and back at me. This is how he controls his "master". Reluctantly, I rise up from my comfortable spot to walk across the room, away from the fireplace, with his bowl. He does not leave the hearth, just watches me with his big brown eyes as I progress down the hall to the cast iron hand pump that I watched my grandmother use when I was a little boy. The pump makes a sloppy "sachugg!" sound as it brings the ice cold water up from the ground, as clean and clear as a mountain stream. I bring it to the faithful hound, who waits for it with the patience of one who knows he is loved and will be this way forever.
Since I'm up, I figure it's a good time to place another log on the fire. I choose a good-looking piece of maple, as dry as an old bone, and tuck it gently between the remains of two oak logs that have kept my dog and me toasty warm for a good long while. My rocker awaits. The afternoon sun is fading, and I choose my book. "A Christmas Carol" will keep me company 'til suppertime.
There's no sense fretting about it now. I'm relaxing in my grandfather's rocking chair, trying to decide which book to start reading. I buy books in bunches, stack them in a corner shelf, and work my way through them at my leisure. I'm down to Stephen King's sequel to "The Shining" that recently came out, called "Dr. Sleep", or "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens, which came out quite a while ago. I've seen the movie versions, all of them at least once, but never read the book, and this seems like a good time to give it a try.
My dog is looking at his water bowl and back at me. This is how he controls his "master". Reluctantly, I rise up from my comfortable spot to walk across the room, away from the fireplace, with his bowl. He does not leave the hearth, just watches me with his big brown eyes as I progress down the hall to the cast iron hand pump that I watched my grandmother use when I was a little boy. The pump makes a sloppy "sachugg!" sound as it brings the ice cold water up from the ground, as clean and clear as a mountain stream. I bring it to the faithful hound, who waits for it with the patience of one who knows he is loved and will be this way forever.
Since I'm up, I figure it's a good time to place another log on the fire. I choose a good-looking piece of maple, as dry as an old bone, and tuck it gently between the remains of two oak logs that have kept my dog and me toasty warm for a good long while. My rocker awaits. The afternoon sun is fading, and I choose my book. "A Christmas Carol" will keep me company 'til suppertime.
Sunday, December 01, 2013
Body Parts
Have you ever wondered why we have two eyes, two ears, two kidneys, two arms and legs, but only one heart? Only one brain? The first mentioned organs are pretty much vital, especially since we were designed by nature to survive in the wild, so we were given spare parts. But you can't get very far without your brain, even though most of us don't use it as much as we should. You surely can't do much if your heart goes on the blink. That pretty much stops the game. We have only one liver, which cleans our blood, even if we abuse it with alcohol. It's called the LIVER for good reason. If you lose it, you stop LIVING.
Mickey Mantle was bumped up on the waiting list for a liver transplant, just because he was a great baseball player, amid a lot of controversy. He was legendary for his alcohol consumption, and famously said, "If I knew I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself." He died anyway.
Heart transplants are common today, like getting your oil changed. Organ transplants are prohibitively expensive, and nobody could pay for the procedure on their own, except for wealthy republicans. But that's another story.
My question of the day is why Mother Nature gave us two of some and only one of some others. In the natural world, things make sense in a brutal sort of way. Wolves cull the deer herd of the weak stragglers, thus leaving the healthy and swift to continue to breed and prosper. It's sensible. But giving us a single heart and a single brain makes no sense at all.
Sometimes we act like we have no heart, and sometimes like we have no brain, but we can't act at all unless we have them.
My grandfather had one eye. His brother gouged out the other one during a disagreement. My uncle John had a good part of his ear missing. It looked like it was removed by a cookie cutter, but was actually bitten off by a guy with very even teeth who had been ripped off by my uncle, a notorious thief. John was a great fighter, but not good at leaving things alone, or keeping his ears.
The point is, if Grampa and John had lost their hearts or brains, they would have died instantly. They were lucky enough to have spare parts. Having any vital organ as a single option only is a serious design flaw. Unfortunately, there is no known way to complain to the manufacturer.
Mickey Mantle was bumped up on the waiting list for a liver transplant, just because he was a great baseball player, amid a lot of controversy. He was legendary for his alcohol consumption, and famously said, "If I knew I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself." He died anyway.
Heart transplants are common today, like getting your oil changed. Organ transplants are prohibitively expensive, and nobody could pay for the procedure on their own, except for wealthy republicans. But that's another story.
My question of the day is why Mother Nature gave us two of some and only one of some others. In the natural world, things make sense in a brutal sort of way. Wolves cull the deer herd of the weak stragglers, thus leaving the healthy and swift to continue to breed and prosper. It's sensible. But giving us a single heart and a single brain makes no sense at all.
Sometimes we act like we have no heart, and sometimes like we have no brain, but we can't act at all unless we have them.
My grandfather had one eye. His brother gouged out the other one during a disagreement. My uncle John had a good part of his ear missing. It looked like it was removed by a cookie cutter, but was actually bitten off by a guy with very even teeth who had been ripped off by my uncle, a notorious thief. John was a great fighter, but not good at leaving things alone, or keeping his ears.
The point is, if Grampa and John had lost their hearts or brains, they would have died instantly. They were lucky enough to have spare parts. Having any vital organ as a single option only is a serious design flaw. Unfortunately, there is no known way to complain to the manufacturer.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Dog Tails
As you may have guessed, I have too much time on my hands. I talk about things that cross my mind, or try to cross my mind before I apprehend them. I have noticed, however, that a lot of folks seem to have even more time than I. For example, I read recently that a researcher noticed that all dogs wag their tails to the right when they first start wagging. Every time. That's the kind of thing that makes you wonder, that just makes you just sit there with your mouth open and stare blankly into space. How did someone notice this? Did it just happen, like when Isaac Newton noticed that what goes up must come down? Or was it the result of a scholarly assignment from a grizzled old professor covered with chalk dust, given to a brilliant student at some ancient and ivy-covered university?
I took note of the tail-wagging phenomenon, and placed it aside for further scrutiny, when to my amazement, another blockbuster announcement burst upon the internet. It has been discovered that, if a dog is happy to see you, his tail wags to the right side of his body, but if he's nervous or angry, it wags totally on the left side!
Lesser minds might think this is all meaningless, but nothing could be further from the truth. Here's the interesting thing. Throughout history, left-handed people have been considered flawed, to say the least. In the Italian language, the word for "left" is "sinistre". Yes, it closely resembles the word "sinister", which means something with evil connotations. In the French language, the word for "left" is "gauche", which is also used to mean low-class.
In the old days, if a child was seen to favor using the left hand, it was discouraged, and even punished. As so often happens, the old wives' tales have proven to be based in fact. Things that tend to the left are indeed an ill omen. Just ask any batsman in baseball who faces a southpaw on the mound.
I took note of the tail-wagging phenomenon, and placed it aside for further scrutiny, when to my amazement, another blockbuster announcement burst upon the internet. It has been discovered that, if a dog is happy to see you, his tail wags to the right side of his body, but if he's nervous or angry, it wags totally on the left side!
Lesser minds might think this is all meaningless, but nothing could be further from the truth. Here's the interesting thing. Throughout history, left-handed people have been considered flawed, to say the least. In the Italian language, the word for "left" is "sinistre". Yes, it closely resembles the word "sinister", which means something with evil connotations. In the French language, the word for "left" is "gauche", which is also used to mean low-class.
In the old days, if a child was seen to favor using the left hand, it was discouraged, and even punished. As so often happens, the old wives' tales have proven to be based in fact. Things that tend to the left are indeed an ill omen. Just ask any batsman in baseball who faces a southpaw on the mound.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Nonsense
Just a quick note. I restarted this blog after a long hiatus to try to regain some scraps of my remaining sanity. I was informed that I had a very small amount of money coming to me from when I was previously active. It's not enough money to buy a six pack of decent beer, but it was money I earned due to my unique brilliance, so I wanted it. As my mother in law would say, "Not to make a long story", I couldn't remember my old password, no matter how hard I tried. They won't give me my own money. So, I said, OK, keep the money, but I'd like to sign up again with the same name for the blog. But no. I can't do that because I already did it. My application was disapproved, with vague suggestions that I was attempting something underhanded. Bear in mind, my blog, "Wormstooth", is still my blog, and nobody can use that name. Go ahead, try it. You'll be told that the name is the exclusive property of someone else, who would be me.
Yes, I know I'm dealing with a computer, not a person. Knowing that, I have made it my life's mission to make the computer understand that it is protecting me from myself. The diabolical machine's latest suggestion is that I invite myself to join myself as a co-author of my blog. I have asked myself if I'd like to join me in authoring this blog, and my answer was a resounding "Yes!" I am thrilled to have joined myself in this endeavor. The only thing I resent is, when the Pulitzer Prize is inevitably awarded to Wormstooth, I will have to share it with me.
Yes, I know I'm dealing with a computer, not a person. Knowing that, I have made it my life's mission to make the computer understand that it is protecting me from myself. The diabolical machine's latest suggestion is that I invite myself to join myself as a co-author of my blog. I have asked myself if I'd like to join me in authoring this blog, and my answer was a resounding "Yes!" I am thrilled to have joined myself in this endeavor. The only thing I resent is, when the Pulitzer Prize is inevitably awarded to Wormstooth, I will have to share it with me.
Pope Francis Needs a Flak Jacket
When a charismatic individual captures the imagination of the masses, he puts himself in a very dangerous spot. The folks that really run the world get a bit edgy when they think someone might cause people to think the Powers That Be aren't really nice, and not even all that necessary. Jesus had a short time in the public eye, made the great Caesar lose sleep, and was dead at the age of 33. Abraham Lincoln shook up an entire nation with outlandish ideas about taking the US Constitution seriously about all men being equal, and never had a chance to see his dreams come to fruition. Jack and Bobby Kennedy both made the Military Industrial Complex nervous, at the same time worrying the American mafia. Talk about asking for trouble! Both were killed before they grew a grey hair. Martin Luther King made everybody in any kind of power unable to hold down breakfast, and was dead before he even hit his stride.
Now, in the old days, somebody like Caesar could get away with putting a hit on Jesus in front of the whole Empire. Who was going to question him? In more modern times, things must be done in a more subtle way, so as not to cause a revolution. The assassin must be a loner, a loser, a misfit who somehow can successfully murder people who are well protected by professionals at all times. The Authorities explain to us that it was just a random, unexplainable, fantastic plan by a deranged individual who was looking for attention.
The question is, if this individual was looking for attention, why did he run away and hide after he committed his glorious deed? Why did all the assassins not stand proudly up, waiting for the applause they were seeking? And how did someone so loony and disconnected from reality pull off the hit with such horrible success?
You'll notice that all the victims mentioned inflamed the passions of the little people of society, the powerless millions that actually do the work to make the system run. The assassination attempts on Gerald Ford were real loonies, members of the Manson clan. The guy that tried to kill Reagan was just trying to impress actress Jody Foster. They were real nutjobs, and they failed because they were dysfunctional nitwits. The killers of Lincoln, the Kennedys, and King were not, and the majority of Americans still do not believe any of them acted alone, nor do I.
Which brings me to my point. Pope Francis has already been adopted by the masses as a truly good man, a pope so desperately needed by the Catholic church if it is to survive. He makes outrageous suggestions to his bishops, saying the church must stop trying to protect itself and begin protecting the poor. He says the Vatican must pay less attention to preserving the status quo, and more to those who need help all over the world. He even says that priests should spend less time reciting the rules, and more time trying to act like Jesus!
Sadly, it seems obvious to any student of history that no man on Earth needs protection more than Pope Francis, the Kind.
Now, in the old days, somebody like Caesar could get away with putting a hit on Jesus in front of the whole Empire. Who was going to question him? In more modern times, things must be done in a more subtle way, so as not to cause a revolution. The assassin must be a loner, a loser, a misfit who somehow can successfully murder people who are well protected by professionals at all times. The Authorities explain to us that it was just a random, unexplainable, fantastic plan by a deranged individual who was looking for attention.
The question is, if this individual was looking for attention, why did he run away and hide after he committed his glorious deed? Why did all the assassins not stand proudly up, waiting for the applause they were seeking? And how did someone so loony and disconnected from reality pull off the hit with such horrible success?
You'll notice that all the victims mentioned inflamed the passions of the little people of society, the powerless millions that actually do the work to make the system run. The assassination attempts on Gerald Ford were real loonies, members of the Manson clan. The guy that tried to kill Reagan was just trying to impress actress Jody Foster. They were real nutjobs, and they failed because they were dysfunctional nitwits. The killers of Lincoln, the Kennedys, and King were not, and the majority of Americans still do not believe any of them acted alone, nor do I.
Which brings me to my point. Pope Francis has already been adopted by the masses as a truly good man, a pope so desperately needed by the Catholic church if it is to survive. He makes outrageous suggestions to his bishops, saying the church must stop trying to protect itself and begin protecting the poor. He says the Vatican must pay less attention to preserving the status quo, and more to those who need help all over the world. He even says that priests should spend less time reciting the rules, and more time trying to act like Jesus!
Sadly, it seems obvious to any student of history that no man on Earth needs protection more than Pope Francis, the Kind.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
If Only I Bought Bitcoins!
Bitcoins were selling for $13 apiece last January. Yesterday they closed at $1004. Now, I knew about bitcoins in January, and I had $13 to spare, but of course I was way too smart to waste my hard-earned money on such foolishness.
For the unenlightened, bitcoins are a form of "virtual currency" that is being closely watched by folks like the nation of China and the U.S. Federal Reserve. Bitcoins can be "mined" by your computer, using complex algorithms. They were invented by a mathematician a while ago that nobody seems to know, as a legitimate experiment or a magnificent scam, depending upon your point of view. Since I don't even know what an algorithm is, I shied away from the whole thing. Discretion is the better part of valor, as they say. Except, of course, if by being bold you could have walked away with a heavy bundle of cash.
The idea of money goes back a long way. Beads, shells, silver, copper and gold have all been used over the years to buy stuff, to hoard, and to kill for so you don't have to bother saving it. Today, we mostly use paper money, and if the wrong person realizes you have a lot of these pieces of paper in your pocket, he may kill you for them. Looking at it from that perspective, bitcoins are no more foolish than any other representation of wealth.
Then there is the troublesome idea of value. What is an ounce of gold worth? It's worth what someone will pay you for it, using a form of currency you will accept. That depends literally on the day of the week and the time of day. What something is really, really worth is called its intrinsic value. In truth, the value of anything depends, like beauty, on the eye of the beholder. What is a slice of pizza worth? It depends on how hungry you are. If you just ate a nice meal, the pizza has no value at all. If your family is starving, you'll kill for it.
Financial advisors tell us we should pay off our debts, own our own house, keep six month's pay in the bank, put ten per cent of our wealth in hard assets like gold and silver, and live a cautious and frugal life. If we could do all that, we wouldn't need a financial advisor in the first place.
If they're so smart, why didn't they tell us to buy bitcoins?
For the unenlightened, bitcoins are a form of "virtual currency" that is being closely watched by folks like the nation of China and the U.S. Federal Reserve. Bitcoins can be "mined" by your computer, using complex algorithms. They were invented by a mathematician a while ago that nobody seems to know, as a legitimate experiment or a magnificent scam, depending upon your point of view. Since I don't even know what an algorithm is, I shied away from the whole thing. Discretion is the better part of valor, as they say. Except, of course, if by being bold you could have walked away with a heavy bundle of cash.
The idea of money goes back a long way. Beads, shells, silver, copper and gold have all been used over the years to buy stuff, to hoard, and to kill for so you don't have to bother saving it. Today, we mostly use paper money, and if the wrong person realizes you have a lot of these pieces of paper in your pocket, he may kill you for them. Looking at it from that perspective, bitcoins are no more foolish than any other representation of wealth.
Then there is the troublesome idea of value. What is an ounce of gold worth? It's worth what someone will pay you for it, using a form of currency you will accept. That depends literally on the day of the week and the time of day. What something is really, really worth is called its intrinsic value. In truth, the value of anything depends, like beauty, on the eye of the beholder. What is a slice of pizza worth? It depends on how hungry you are. If you just ate a nice meal, the pizza has no value at all. If your family is starving, you'll kill for it.
Financial advisors tell us we should pay off our debts, own our own house, keep six month's pay in the bank, put ten per cent of our wealth in hard assets like gold and silver, and live a cautious and frugal life. If we could do all that, we wouldn't need a financial advisor in the first place.
If they're so smart, why didn't they tell us to buy bitcoins?
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
How to Pull Wings Off Butterflies to Produce Maximum Pain
First of all, bear in mind that this is a warm weather sport. Butterflies leave the colder climates as Autumn approaches. Here in New England, butterflies leave in October and fly all the way south to the lovely nation of Mexico, where they decorate the trees in huge numbers and do whatever else it is that they do.
Catching butterflies can have varying degrees of difficulty, depending on the breed. Tiger Swallow-tails are notoriously shy, while Monarchs have been known to land on a person's nose, just for the hell of it.
When I was a kid, I caught a butterfly, cupped it in my little hands, and then realized I didn't know what to do with him or her, as the case may have been. I put it in a jar, where the poor fool beat its wings against the glass trying to escape. The pretty colors that make the delicate wings look so wonderful are actually a fine, chalky powder. The powder came off the wings and stuck to the glass, and the once beautiful wings became transparent and tattered. The butterfly became an ugly bug that couldn't fly when I released it. It looked like a giant ant in a wet raincoat, and crawled pathetically away to die.
I guess we are all butterflies in our own way. The key is to get out of the jar soon enough, or, better yet, to avoid the jar entirely. There are those who want to put everyone in jars, just like Captain Hook did to Tinker Belle. I learned at an early age that jars are for peanut butter, not for something lovely and free.
For those of you that wanted to learn how to hurt butterflies, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Seek counseling.
Catching butterflies can have varying degrees of difficulty, depending on the breed. Tiger Swallow-tails are notoriously shy, while Monarchs have been known to land on a person's nose, just for the hell of it.
When I was a kid, I caught a butterfly, cupped it in my little hands, and then realized I didn't know what to do with him or her, as the case may have been. I put it in a jar, where the poor fool beat its wings against the glass trying to escape. The pretty colors that make the delicate wings look so wonderful are actually a fine, chalky powder. The powder came off the wings and stuck to the glass, and the once beautiful wings became transparent and tattered. The butterfly became an ugly bug that couldn't fly when I released it. It looked like a giant ant in a wet raincoat, and crawled pathetically away to die.
I guess we are all butterflies in our own way. The key is to get out of the jar soon enough, or, better yet, to avoid the jar entirely. There are those who want to put everyone in jars, just like Captain Hook did to Tinker Belle. I learned at an early age that jars are for peanut butter, not for something lovely and free.
For those of you that wanted to learn how to hurt butterflies, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Seek counseling.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Thanksgiving
A real holiday is fast approaching. The beautiful thing about Thanksgiving is that Corporate America has not figured out a way to co-opt it and commercialize it to death, a la Christmas and Halloween. Most retailers in America do almost half their annual sales during the Christmas season. That's because Americans buy gifts for friends, family, postmen, hair stylists, and secret lovers. They buy gifts for their pets and little babies, none of whom own a calendar and don't know what Christmas is.
Halloween runs a close second. People spend money they should be saving for Christmas on Halloween masks, costumes, and decorations to scare small children, all to celebrate the eve of All Souls Day, when spirits are supposed to rise into heaven for some reason.
Easter is another major holiday, though less monetary in nature. We spend a good deal of money to dress up little kids in white and pink dresses for delighted girls, and suits for reluctant boys, all of whom will outgrow them almost immediately. But it's all harmless fun designed to celebrate the rising of Christ from his tomb, after which he flew off into the heavens like Batman before comic books were invented.
Thanksgiving is different. We all sit down and gorge ourselves on traditional foods that are guaranteed to give us dangerous amounts of cholesterol and gas, in celebration of the day the Indians taught the Pilgrims how to hunt and fish, saving their lives by fattening them up before a harsh winter. The Native Americans, who were fascinated by the Europeans arriving on ships they called "Village on Water", were soon repaid by losing their land, starving, and being introduced to disease that wiped out entire tribes. But there is no need to dwell on such uncomfortable facts. Who really cares?
Right now, pies are baking, vegetables are being gathered, and turkeys are looking around nervously. It's a good time to sit with family members and reflect on all we have to be thankful for. All holidays have a questionable past, much like ourselves. For the moment, I raise a glass to us, the present tenants of this earth. Let's relax and enjoy it. And remember, you can never be truly happy unless you are grateful for what life has given you.
Halloween runs a close second. People spend money they should be saving for Christmas on Halloween masks, costumes, and decorations to scare small children, all to celebrate the eve of All Souls Day, when spirits are supposed to rise into heaven for some reason.
Easter is another major holiday, though less monetary in nature. We spend a good deal of money to dress up little kids in white and pink dresses for delighted girls, and suits for reluctant boys, all of whom will outgrow them almost immediately. But it's all harmless fun designed to celebrate the rising of Christ from his tomb, after which he flew off into the heavens like Batman before comic books were invented.
Thanksgiving is different. We all sit down and gorge ourselves on traditional foods that are guaranteed to give us dangerous amounts of cholesterol and gas, in celebration of the day the Indians taught the Pilgrims how to hunt and fish, saving their lives by fattening them up before a harsh winter. The Native Americans, who were fascinated by the Europeans arriving on ships they called "Village on Water", were soon repaid by losing their land, starving, and being introduced to disease that wiped out entire tribes. But there is no need to dwell on such uncomfortable facts. Who really cares?
Right now, pies are baking, vegetables are being gathered, and turkeys are looking around nervously. It's a good time to sit with family members and reflect on all we have to be thankful for. All holidays have a questionable past, much like ourselves. For the moment, I raise a glass to us, the present tenants of this earth. Let's relax and enjoy it. And remember, you can never be truly happy unless you are grateful for what life has given you.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Nuclear Power for Iran
Some time ago, someone invented the bow and arrow. That gave them military superiority over their neighbors. It would have been convenient if they could forbid their friends and enemies to figure out how to build bows and arrows. Sadly for all of us, that couldn't be done. The idea was out there, and was inevitably duplicated and improved upon. That's the way it is.
A long time before that, the Chinese invented explosives that they would use to entertain themselves in their celebrations. When Europeans saw these things, they immediately thought, "Hey, these are great! We can use this stuff for weapons to kill people!" Thus, the entire future of warfare was changed. No longer was it necessary to kill one man at a time!
Along came World War Two. It was bloody, costly, and only necessary because a small group of megalomaniacs decided it was their destiny to rule the world. There was a race to develop new technology designed to destroy the maximum number of people in the shortest amount of time. A guy named Hitler had engineers and scientists working on new stuff like jets and nuclear bombs. Fortunately for us, we stopped Hitler in Europe before his team could come up with the new weapons. Otherwise, we'd all have to learn to speak German, which seems like a difficult language, and learn to eat food that we can't pronounce.
Unfortunately, we still had to deal with Japan, a people who don't know how to quit. We figured out the nuclear bomb, and dropped a couple of them on Japan. After some thought, the Japanese decided to surrender. Thus began the nuclear age, the Age of Darkness.
It was only a matter of time before Russia, China, France, and a few other players learned how to make the magic bomb. I will now release a well-known secret. Israel has the magic bomb, too. Now there is concern that Iran, a powerful nation that has no love for Israel, the US, or Europe, may develop a magic bomb themselves. We're asking them not to, and Israel is strongly hinting that they'll attack Iran before they'll allow them to have the Bomb.
It boils down to this. We have learned to make a bow and arrow that can kill you, and we will kill you if you make a bow and arrow.
A long time before that, the Chinese invented explosives that they would use to entertain themselves in their celebrations. When Europeans saw these things, they immediately thought, "Hey, these are great! We can use this stuff for weapons to kill people!" Thus, the entire future of warfare was changed. No longer was it necessary to kill one man at a time!
Along came World War Two. It was bloody, costly, and only necessary because a small group of megalomaniacs decided it was their destiny to rule the world. There was a race to develop new technology designed to destroy the maximum number of people in the shortest amount of time. A guy named Hitler had engineers and scientists working on new stuff like jets and nuclear bombs. Fortunately for us, we stopped Hitler in Europe before his team could come up with the new weapons. Otherwise, we'd all have to learn to speak German, which seems like a difficult language, and learn to eat food that we can't pronounce.
Unfortunately, we still had to deal with Japan, a people who don't know how to quit. We figured out the nuclear bomb, and dropped a couple of them on Japan. After some thought, the Japanese decided to surrender. Thus began the nuclear age, the Age of Darkness.
It was only a matter of time before Russia, China, France, and a few other players learned how to make the magic bomb. I will now release a well-known secret. Israel has the magic bomb, too. Now there is concern that Iran, a powerful nation that has no love for Israel, the US, or Europe, may develop a magic bomb themselves. We're asking them not to, and Israel is strongly hinting that they'll attack Iran before they'll allow them to have the Bomb.
It boils down to this. We have learned to make a bow and arrow that can kill you, and we will kill you if you make a bow and arrow.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Free Speech
The great George Burns once said, "The most important thing in life is sincerity. Once you learn to fake that, the rest is easy."
Today I got an anonymous first class letter in the mail. It was a smearing insinuation against the mayor of my fair city. I'm no cheerleader for this mayor, who went to high school with my children, but he's doing a fair job as far as I can see.
The important thing is, whoever this fool is, they think anonymous letters carry any kind of weight. We are lucky enough to live in America, which is a much better country than most of us, (excepting war veterans), really deserve. What kind of chowderhead would pay attention to an unsigned letter?
One of the many great paintings by Norman Rockwell is called "Freedom of Speech". It depicts a man speaking at a town hall meeting, standing up, obviously not used to public speaking. His friends and neighbors are sitting around him, watching and listening to his every word. It's a beautiful portrayal of the innocence and dignity of an America that I fear is becoming a distant memory, like "The Cisco Kid", and "The Lone Ranger".
The really scary thing is, this type of whispering campaign, which was common a century ago, might actually be effective today, because we've come full circle, from ignorance and illiteracy to a population with instant information available all day long that can't distinguish real from unreal. If it's in front of my face, it must be true!
My suggestion is, if you have something to say, stand up like a man and say it. Otherwise, stay under the flat rock, with the salamanders and centipedes, where you belong.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Numerology
Numerologists believe they can find significant hints about the future in the numbers that relate to us every day. Our birthdays, age, height, IQ, street address, longitude and latitude, etc.. There's an old joke about a guy who woke up on Cinco de Mayo, (May fifth), (5/5). He bought a mocha latte and noticed the bill, with tax, was $5.55. When he got to work, he was five minutes late, and his boss mentioned it was the fifth time he did this.
He was by now dwelling on the number during work. He bought lunch for himself and a client he'd had for five years, and the bill of course was $55.55. He couldn't concentrate on his work, so he left early, and got to the race track in time for the fifth race. He'd withdrawn all his cash from the credit union, $5,555., and put it all on the number five horse to win. It came in fifth.
Yes, that's the kind of stuff that killed Vaudeville. But a numerologist would insist that the horse came in fifth because the numbers dictated that he would.
The phone number for my first girl friend ended in 1203. If you look at the back of a tanker truck, you'll notice they all have numbers on the back, assigned by the Federal Department of Transportation. The number 1203 identifies it as a truck carrying volatile and combustible material. If I were a numerologist, I never would have called her that first timid time, my hands shaking as I dropped the dime into the payphone. The girl was of Sicilian descent, her parents came from the Old Country, and she was as volatile and combustible as anyone I ever knew. The year was 1964. We went together through high school, surviving each other's temper explosions, wound up married, and are still together as I write.
A numerologist would say, "I told you she was trouble!"
He was by now dwelling on the number during work. He bought lunch for himself and a client he'd had for five years, and the bill of course was $55.55. He couldn't concentrate on his work, so he left early, and got to the race track in time for the fifth race. He'd withdrawn all his cash from the credit union, $5,555., and put it all on the number five horse to win. It came in fifth.
Yes, that's the kind of stuff that killed Vaudeville. But a numerologist would insist that the horse came in fifth because the numbers dictated that he would.
The phone number for my first girl friend ended in 1203. If you look at the back of a tanker truck, you'll notice they all have numbers on the back, assigned by the Federal Department of Transportation. The number 1203 identifies it as a truck carrying volatile and combustible material. If I were a numerologist, I never would have called her that first timid time, my hands shaking as I dropped the dime into the payphone. The girl was of Sicilian descent, her parents came from the Old Country, and she was as volatile and combustible as anyone I ever knew. The year was 1964. We went together through high school, surviving each other's temper explosions, wound up married, and are still together as I write.
A numerologist would say, "I told you she was trouble!"
Sunday, November 17, 2013
The Worth and Weight of Wisdom
As a twelve year old girl, I obviously am wise beyond my years. Sadly, I am not a twelve year old girl. It's true that I once was twelve years old, but that was quite some time ago. And I have never, to my knowledge, been a girl. I'm actually an old man. But I have been told more than once that I am wise. Being a wise old man, I naturally ignore such flattering praise, for the most part.
Still, I'm positive I have more wisdom than two guys I just read about who calmly robbed a man in a wheelchair of his cell phone and all his money in a subway elevator for the handicapped. The guy has cerebral palsy, one leg, and three fingers on each hand. One of the robbers was named Demetrius, the other Tyrell, rather grandiose names for a pair of subway slugs. If they had a spark of wisdom, they might think, "Gosh, maybe I'm going down the wrong road!" But no.
Anyway, the cops, who get used to seeing ordinary, petty thievery and mayhem on a daily basis, took this case to heart, and made an extra effort to catch the perpetrators. They flashed security cam photos of the crime and soon found one of the guys, who promptly turned in his partner. There is honor among thieves, but not among slime.
Confucius said, "Wisdom is the comb that Nature gives men when they are bald". I don't think Confucius ever said anything that wasn't profound and quotable, worthy of the paper strip tucked in your fortune cookie. ( How they do that is beyond me ). The term "Common Sense" is a contradiction in terms, to say the least. "Common Decency" is also a head scratcher. Who comes up with these hilarious phrases? Here's another. " Prevailing Wisdom".
Sense and decency are far from common, and history teaches us that wisdom has never prevailed.
Still, I'm positive I have more wisdom than two guys I just read about who calmly robbed a man in a wheelchair of his cell phone and all his money in a subway elevator for the handicapped. The guy has cerebral palsy, one leg, and three fingers on each hand. One of the robbers was named Demetrius, the other Tyrell, rather grandiose names for a pair of subway slugs. If they had a spark of wisdom, they might think, "Gosh, maybe I'm going down the wrong road!" But no.
Anyway, the cops, who get used to seeing ordinary, petty thievery and mayhem on a daily basis, took this case to heart, and made an extra effort to catch the perpetrators. They flashed security cam photos of the crime and soon found one of the guys, who promptly turned in his partner. There is honor among thieves, but not among slime.
Confucius said, "Wisdom is the comb that Nature gives men when they are bald". I don't think Confucius ever said anything that wasn't profound and quotable, worthy of the paper strip tucked in your fortune cookie. ( How they do that is beyond me ). The term "Common Sense" is a contradiction in terms, to say the least. "Common Decency" is also a head scratcher. Who comes up with these hilarious phrases? Here's another. " Prevailing Wisdom".
Sense and decency are far from common, and history teaches us that wisdom has never prevailed.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
An Open Letter to Toronto Mayor Rob Ford, From One Happy Slob to Another
Dear Rob,
You don't know me, but I feel as though I know you. That's because I've made colossal mistakes in my life, just as you seem to have the habit of doing. As a fellow traveler through time, I want to warn you that the jackals are getting worked up, big time. There's blood in the dirt, and people who call themselves "reporters" are trying frantically to create news by goading, taunting, and crowding the wounded bull. Your brother wants you to take a little time off, and that's not in your nature, but it's good advice. I, too, have a brother, and once in a while he comes up with good advice. You want to fight the world right now, and the "reporters" would love it, so they could document every misstep you make.
Who among us has never had too much to drink? Who among us has never tried a banned substance? OK, I suppose there are a few who haven't. A president from my country, Abraham Lincoln, (you may have heard of him), once said, "It has been my experience that those with no vices have few virtues". You're a big guy who makes big mistakes, and you have a loyal following called "Ford Nation". How many of your clucking, horrified critics have nations named for them?
You'll probably never read this letter, but if, by chance, you do, please know it comes from the heart of a man who knows pain and knows how to laugh so hard it hurts. Rock On, Dude!
You don't know me, but I feel as though I know you. That's because I've made colossal mistakes in my life, just as you seem to have the habit of doing. As a fellow traveler through time, I want to warn you that the jackals are getting worked up, big time. There's blood in the dirt, and people who call themselves "reporters" are trying frantically to create news by goading, taunting, and crowding the wounded bull. Your brother wants you to take a little time off, and that's not in your nature, but it's good advice. I, too, have a brother, and once in a while he comes up with good advice. You want to fight the world right now, and the "reporters" would love it, so they could document every misstep you make.
Who among us has never had too much to drink? Who among us has never tried a banned substance? OK, I suppose there are a few who haven't. A president from my country, Abraham Lincoln, (you may have heard of him), once said, "It has been my experience that those with no vices have few virtues". You're a big guy who makes big mistakes, and you have a loyal following called "Ford Nation". How many of your clucking, horrified critics have nations named for them?
You'll probably never read this letter, but if, by chance, you do, please know it comes from the heart of a man who knows pain and knows how to laugh so hard it hurts. Rock On, Dude!
November Morn
The usual grey dawn of the unnecessary month of November has broken. The leaves of the enormous maple that is not even mine litter the yard, slowly turning from the gay bright colors they sported as they fell, into the inevitable damp brown globs waiting to rot on the grass.
Some folks rake them in piles when they're freshly fallen. Kids jump on the piles with the family dog following them. Winston Churchill said the beauty of a dog is that, no matter how foolish you act, he will do the same thing and enjoy the hell out of it.
In the good old days, the man of the family would finally light up a Lucky Strike and toss the match into the pile, (making sure the kids and dogs are not still in it ), and let the leaves convert themselves into the fragrant scent that used to fill the autumn air in New England. Today that's considered an insane way to burn down entire neighborhoods. The odd thing is, I've never heard of anyone turning a neighborhood into an inferno because they burned leaves. Actually, not even a single house was destroyed in my experience, and I'm 65 years old. But then, I never knew of one kid who fell off his bike and died, or even got a serious wound, but everyone has to wear helmets as they careen around at ten miles an hour today, looking like idiots. I'm becoming a cranky old man.
In about an hour, I'll force myself to drag out the old mower one last time for the year, and mow the living crap out of those leaves. It's not as much fun as burning them, and the fumes from the mower are way less attractive than leaf smoke, but it's a good way to force me off my ass.
Some folks rake them in piles when they're freshly fallen. Kids jump on the piles with the family dog following them. Winston Churchill said the beauty of a dog is that, no matter how foolish you act, he will do the same thing and enjoy the hell out of it.
In the good old days, the man of the family would finally light up a Lucky Strike and toss the match into the pile, (making sure the kids and dogs are not still in it ), and let the leaves convert themselves into the fragrant scent that used to fill the autumn air in New England. Today that's considered an insane way to burn down entire neighborhoods. The odd thing is, I've never heard of anyone turning a neighborhood into an inferno because they burned leaves. Actually, not even a single house was destroyed in my experience, and I'm 65 years old. But then, I never knew of one kid who fell off his bike and died, or even got a serious wound, but everyone has to wear helmets as they careen around at ten miles an hour today, looking like idiots. I'm becoming a cranky old man.
In about an hour, I'll force myself to drag out the old mower one last time for the year, and mow the living crap out of those leaves. It's not as much fun as burning them, and the fumes from the mower are way less attractive than leaf smoke, but it's a good way to force me off my ass.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Testing
Why, hello there. I've been away from the game for a while now, and since I'm almost thirty, I'm a little slower to make it to first base, if you know what I'm saying. Since I've never been a home run hitter, racing to first is doubly important. Please rest assured, I won't leave you, breathless and panting for more wisdom, again. I'm capable of enormous cruelty, but not in a repetitive way.
Right now I'm pressed for time, dealing with things of global importance and such, but I, like General MacArthur, shall return. Lafayette, nous voici!
Right now I'm pressed for time, dealing with things of global importance and such, but I, like General MacArthur, shall return. Lafayette, nous voici!
How To Build A Nuclear Bomb To Destroy The World
First of all, you must go to the nearest grocery store and pick up about six pounds of weapons- grade enriched plutonium. This product is available under various brand names, and all of them are equally good. Next, a quart of tabasco sauce. You may receive some suspicious glances with this purchase, so just get used to it. After all, the world will end soon, so, why obsess about it?
Add these ingredients, along with a pint of inexpensive whiskey, into a stainless steel lobster pot and stir vigorously. I might even say, stir with absolute malice. The stainless steel will hold the ingredients for about two hours, before they eat through the bottom of the pot, so keep an eye on your new hobby!
Now comes the hard part. You must add a quart jar full of air collected from a public restroom on a Saturday night, preferably around one o'clock in the morning. The quality of this air will vaguely resemble your grandfather's farts after a night of carousing. I have warm personal memories of my sainted grandfather MacKenzie releasing farts of Olympian proportions that would wilt the flowers on my sainted grandmother's wallpaper. It is this methane- saturated air that will be the vehicle your very own bomb will use to come into existence, just before it ends existence in general, so to speak.
Finally, set the sealed jar into the lobster pot carefully. Place the pot on the front lawn of your least favorite neighbor, or your local IRS office. Stand about four feet away, and shoot the pot with the copper-clad, armor-piercing bullets that I know are already loaded into your AK47.
And, there you have it! Have a nice day, and happy destroying!
Add these ingredients, along with a pint of inexpensive whiskey, into a stainless steel lobster pot and stir vigorously. I might even say, stir with absolute malice. The stainless steel will hold the ingredients for about two hours, before they eat through the bottom of the pot, so keep an eye on your new hobby!
Now comes the hard part. You must add a quart jar full of air collected from a public restroom on a Saturday night, preferably around one o'clock in the morning. The quality of this air will vaguely resemble your grandfather's farts after a night of carousing. I have warm personal memories of my sainted grandfather MacKenzie releasing farts of Olympian proportions that would wilt the flowers on my sainted grandmother's wallpaper. It is this methane- saturated air that will be the vehicle your very own bomb will use to come into existence, just before it ends existence in general, so to speak.
Finally, set the sealed jar into the lobster pot carefully. Place the pot on the front lawn of your least favorite neighbor, or your local IRS office. Stand about four feet away, and shoot the pot with the copper-clad, armor-piercing bullets that I know are already loaded into your AK47.
And, there you have it! Have a nice day, and happy destroying!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)