This
marks the continuation of my micro-posting entitled My Pet
Peeves. My intent is to publish one Peeve every Wednesday for your
viewing pleasure. Hopefully you will find these to be true,
recognizable, amusing, and identifiable. The Pet Peeves listed here
are my opinion and my opinion only.
Any
questions please email me at:
namor@panix.com
And now Ladies and Gentlemen ... My Pet Peeve of the week: 10/4/2023:
THE QUESTION
Anybody ever ask you a question that is so nonsensical as to drive you crazy? Why do they call those road we travel on highways when the roads are low and flat on the ground? Wouldn’t lowways be better? Or even flatways? Shouldn’t those meat sandwiches be called meat-burgers instead of hamburgers? Unless of course they’re made with ham. And even then, shouldn’t they then be called pork-burgers, or pig-burgers, or even swine-burgers? And why do they call those things hotdogs instead of frankfurters, or sausage burgers? For you sci-fi afficionados, how about a little time travel, and the pondering of the consequences of your actions. I know I know. Science fiction allows for outlandish stretches of the imagination, all falling in the category of acceptable extrapolation. Still, when they ask you to imagine yourself back in time to an era before your birth, which you do, and you meet your parents who now live near a lake, but don’t know that you are their son, and you go for a rowboat ride, and as then you stand on the seat to deliver a speech telling them who you are, and the boat suddenly tips over and your parents fall into the water and drown, would you still be in existence? The possibilities for inane questions abound. A last example of inanity you ask? It’s night out. It’s dark. You were gifted with the ability to run faster than the speed of light. You flip the switch of your flashlight to on. And you wonder what happened to the light? These are all interesting bits of superfluous idiocies, each one surpassing the one before it in stupidity. And yet, and still, none come close to the one question that drives me crazy, that ranks supreme as regards my pet peeve for this week. You’re at a gathering of sorts. You are confronted by many questions, all of them akin in spirit to the absurdity of the other. And yet, there is one that surpasses all the others. Oh pray tell us what this dim-witted question is, dear dear Benjamin. Well my treasured readers, the most asinine of all questions, the one that ranks supreme in my pet peeve for this week, is this one. “Can I ask you a question?” You blithering dolt. You just did, did you not?
STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK'S PET PEEVE
THE KNOW IT ALL
I was born, much as, I assume, were the rest of you. I came out, doctor slapped my ass, I spit in his eye, and for me, the world of conflict and learning had begun. I assume it was the same for you as well. The area inside by head, that part called my brain, was a vast, empty plateau filled with nothing. My mother picked me up, said kootchie kootchie koo, and in that moment my learning had begun. The empty plateau, while no longer empty, was, for the most part still filled with nothing. I had learned that kootchie kotchie koo meant please shut your trap and let me rest for a moment. I smirked at this useless bit of drivel, my mother thought I was smiling, and the world of misunderstanding took a firm hold on my human interactive social activities. Over time, misunderstanding gripped all my relations. And I grew. I went to early schools and then to later schools. Kindergarten, high school, university. Got my graduate degree. Became a doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. I pranced and strutted, chest jutting out in pride, pretending modesty while showing the world how smart I was, how much I knew. Then I got married, had children. I was now even more intelligent than I ever was. I knew much. Even more than much. I knew lots and lots. And my children grew, and they got married, and they had children too. I was now the top of a three generational family. My intellect knew no bounds. But something was happening. My children had started treating me as an equal. Suddenly, one day, my grandchildren also started treating me as an equal. Ye gads folks. What was going on here. My offspring and my offspring’s offspring began to seemingly know more than I. Was that possible? Hah. Not to worry. I still knew more than they. I was, after all, older. I had experienced more. But suddenly, one day, when I least expected it, I discovered a most disturbing reality. The more I read, the more I learned, and as it turned out, the less I seemed to know. How was that possible? My Pet Peeve you ask, while I hoped that these passing years had left me with enough intellect to answer. My Pet Peeve is this. How is it possible that the more I learned, the less I seemed to know.
SIZE PLEASE
Am I a medium, am I a small, am I a large? The further along I tread this path called Life, the more I find myself immersed in extricable dilemmas. I, as I’m sure do you all, wear underwear beneath my daily garb. The reasons for this probably borders on the fact that this is what I was told to do as a child. I suspect most beginnings begin this way. However, as my tastes in food, people, cars and more have changed, so has my underwear of choice changed. At one time it was the hug me tight kind that climbed, of its own accord, up the cracks of my derriere. And then there were the ones that were so loose fitting I hardly knew they were there. One day, as I trekked along my senior years, the elasticity of my bloomers lost their stretch, and I realized it was time for a new set. But here’s the thing of it. I was up twenty pounds, then I was down twenty pounds. Ups and downs produced larges and smalls and even mediums. Which one was I at this present stage of my life? Hah! For once in this most wondrous existence of mine, I had an easy quest. On to the chest drawer, pull out an old pair, and look at the size. This will enable me to now make an educated guess. But. But but but. Stupid once again dominated the world of commerce. Why tell me when they don’t have to. Why spend a micro-cent on extra print? They didn’t put the size in. Why bother? Make me guess, and if I guess wrong, I may well have to re-purchase. Good for business, wouldn’t you say? I personally, never heard of a garment or an undergarment that purposefully refused to enter the size. Are they trying to dupe me?
Those duping dopes are making me crazy? So here’s the question. Do I give you the firm’s name? Do I tell you who they are? No and nay dear souls. Why on earth would I tell you it’s HANES, and thereby probably cajole you into looking into their bindings to see if they bothered to put in a size? Why on earth would I lean you into not buying their product for after all, can you trust a company who can’t be bothered to tell you what size you bought in order to perhaps influence you to buy again? Alas, this brings me to my Pet Peeve of this week, which I’m sure you all now know. Why can’t those idiots put sizes in their undies. And surely this is more than you needed to know. Hey wot? Agreed?
I LOVE IT. I HATE IT. I LOVE IT. I...
Let us start with our accomplishments. We found a way to combat measles, whooping cough, chicken pox and more. Rather than ride horses across the plains, we invented contraptions we liked to call bicycles, and then followed that with something we called an automobile. Oh how clever we thought and think we were and are. Following the automobile, we invented an aeroplane, or airplane. Today, we're working on flying cars, artificial intelligence that will surely one day outthink us, robots that will do our chores and cater to all our needs. So with all these wondrous deeds of ours, let me take a brief moment here to segue to foods of many sorts. There are sweets and there are sours. There are smooth and there are chunky. But the question arises, aside from baby lamb chops and chicken and candy and fuits, is there any one food that is, presumably liked by one and all, at least here in the good old U.S.A.? I believe there is. And yet, and I presume again, while everybody in America likes it, they, including me, also, in a mild sort of way, despise it. Hunh? Wha..? Oh, it is most tasty. It is yummy to the nth degree. You can buy it in the supermarket, at the candy store (if those things even still exist), at the movies, vending machines I think, shopping malls, and even maybe, when we kick that ol' bucket, at the everything stall situated between clouds seven and eight, just around the corner of the stairway to hell. Oh it's so good and tasty. And yet, it sometimes hurt to eat it. And still I, we, keep buying it. There's something wrong with it. My Pet Peeve for this week my friends is this. If we can do all these aforementioned things, why can't we fix this little problem? It bites, it cuts, it gets stuck between your teeth and on on your gums. After you finish nibbling till you’re sated, you spend the next few hours spitting out unwanted remnants. So what, pray tell Benjamin, what is this annoying little condiment you insist on warning us about? Hey? Well, it is this, and I reiterate that it is far and away one of my Pet Peeves as well as my most favorite and most despised of foods. So, what is it you ask. Simple. It’s called POPCORN. It’s tasty. It has the right amount of crunch. But it’s the bloody kernel that stick wherever they not wanted. What the devil is wrong with our scientific community? If they can make a car fly, why can’t they make popcorn easier to eat? Do we agree?
OH WOE IS ME
Oh woe is me. It’s coming. I see it on the pike, gasping its last breath, tripping over its feet, apology filling its eyes, the weight of its burden bending its back in a curve so steep as to indicate its sorrow for having disappointed. Is it possible that I have come to the end of my road? Has my Pet Peeves decided to tread on to over the horizon to look for greener pastures? Has it exhausted its supply? Was I living in a world of illusion thinking that there would be an endless supply of woes to be foisted upon our unwary souls? Is there no end to impending doom and disaster at the prospect of there no longer being any more doom and disaster? I raise my chin to the heavens and from my throat there comes a curdling cry, a yelp of a wounded animal screaming out its pain. Where or where are the pet peeves for which I so deeply yearn? Where oh where are the disasters for me to cull in order to fill my columns? Where oh where are the seeds of dismay from which I reap the misery with which to fill my pet peeves with the joys of tragic expectations? The once lush plains of misery and despair now, suddenly, seemed filled with satisfaction and joy. Oh no no no. This can not be. How can the gods thwart me in my quest to pass the signals of false promises and expectations on to my readers, dear souls that they are? No, I say. They can not do this to me. They very thought of there no longer being anything out there to complain about is more than the human soul should be able to withstand. Again I raise my throat to the heavens. More disappointment, I yell to the overseers. More broken promises and unfulfilled requests. More misleading measures from which we rely for guidance. I yell till my throat goes hoarse. And then I see him. A rider on a broken down old nag, toting upon its back a sack filled to the brim with heavy idioms and meaningless prattle. He rides till his is only inches from my feet, and then gets off of his steed and pulls the bags to the ground, unties them, and turns them upside-down. And there they are, filling my heart with joy. Hundreds of them, thousands, all tumbling out, grumbling and groaning at the humiliation of being tossed about in such an undignified manner. My heart soars with a newfound happiness. And what is this that this rider and his steed, all bent and broken, having traveled so many miles, have so unceremoniously tossed at my feet, you ask? Why, it is a treasure to surpass all treasures. It is a triple scad, enough to last me a lifetime, of weekly Pet Peeves. You no longer have to worry. Hallelujah! So tell me, did I do good?
DAMN THE MINIMALISTS
We are a country filled with information. It is filled to a degree that is staggering. Go to Google and type in something you want to know and presto, it is there. Google not good enough, try ChatGPT. Double presto. Try GPT 4 and, presumably, you’re in seventh heaven. I do believe, if childhood memory serves, that seven denotes the amount of heavens needed to cross to get to paradise. Different beliefs say different things. Me, I’m revving up my intergalactic after-death travel machine. I suspect it will not be a difficult trip. All I need to do is check the directions out on Google. But hold on. Google, and his brethren, have a strong propensity to not tell you that which you are itching to find out. Why, you ask? The answer is quite simple The reason they don’t tell you is because. Just plain because. Because they don’t feel like it. Because it takes too much time to give complete instructions. Because they’re too lazy to spell it all out. And, of course, just plain because.
What bothers me here, and I’ve spoken about this before, is that if you have aspirations to becoming a knowledge giver, well then by golly, give us more than just a modicum of information. Give us information, complete and unimpeded. Example please. As it relates to the information givers of today. Question: What does the sun do? Answer: It gives us that which the moon does not. That’s their answer? That’s information? Are you kidding me, you blithering pack of idiots? Question again. What does the sun do? It give us light. It gives us warmth. It makes the plants grow. It enhances our complexions. It enables life to thrive on our planet. And more. That is what the sun does. It enables photosynthesis, a biological process which converts light energy into chemical energy in order to later metabolize cellular respiration to fuel an organism's activities.
So, do they tell you that? Nah. Not if they can help it. They way they see it is this. If you can find it elsewhere, why should they bother telling it to you. To reiterate. The sun gives is what the moon does not. Want more in depth information, go look it up else where. As to my Pet Peeve for this week. If they can’t be bothered to tell you, why bother entering into that state of being that seeks information in the first place?
ENRAGEMENT
No Pet Peeves this week. In lieu, a small bit of Enragement instead. Let me explain. In 1965 I got married. And after the wedding, we went on our honeymoon. And then we returned, and, with nothing in our cupboards, we decided to go food shopping. She knew what she was doing. I was like a blind man walking. Each step I took I stepped into a pail or water, wondering why my feet were getting wet. We were starting from scratch. It was heart attack time. Fruit, meat, veggies, cleaning solutions, yada yada yada. Total cost, if memory serves, around $65.00. I asked my new wife for life if she was crazy. Sixty five dollars? Are you nuts? I’m not a millionaire. She calmed me down. That’s what food costs she explained to me in a voice as calm as she could muster. I raised my eyes to the heavens and supplicated the powers that be to ease up on this costly insanity. They, as usual, ignored me, and I succumbed to my fates. And then the years passed by more swiftly that I could have ever imagined. And my wife, the love of my life, left me alone on this earth as she decided to wander through heavenly pastures, waiting, as she was wont to do, for me to catch up to her. And now, near the end of the treadmill, I found myself near on to the same position as I was when I started. Alone, empty cupboards needing to be filled, as ignorant as I was when I started this whole shebang. Food shopping time. Off to the supermarket. Fruit, meat, veggies, cleaning solutions, yada yada yada. The cost you ask? This ranged, depending on if I needed meat this week or not, between one hundred and fifty to one hundred and seventy dollars. Whaaat? I live alone, just me and my dog, Brinkley. One person, one dog. One hundred and fifty smackeroos and more. That’s not a Pet Peeve. It’s past that. It’s even way past insanity. It’s total Enragement. Are they crazy? I shake my head in wonderment. I look up again to the heavens. Nothing. No answer. I should be used to this. I’m ignored. And so, in order to soothe my frazzled nerves, I go to my keyboard and decide to write my weekly Pet Peeve, except that this week it’s going to be my Enragement. Anybody out there agree with me, or am I alone in this? Let me know. Now. Hurry. Before they cart me away to the Loonie Bin.
BACK DOORS AND HALLUCINATIONS
I live in wonderment. The most precious of commodities has been stolen. It’s called privacy. Thieves have broken in to that which was thought to be impenetrable. There has been an unheralded theft of information such as had never been expected. The entry to a series of computers that contain the confidential codes to safes has been breached. Coded entries to statistics have been broken. Secret information, stored in computers locked with secret codes, were opened to allow the reading of articles promising to raise fear and so sell papers, has been broken. How did they do this? Simple. Easy peasy. It has been said by some, that all computers are equipped with back doors… codes created by manufacturers to allow, in cases of dire emergency, such as the need to steal, entry by law patrols into those computers in order to glean information most could not get. Only legitimate operators can get in, and also those nefarious individuals who are often smarter than those operators themselves. A now, for the fun of it, a quick segue to AI. Has Artificial Intelligence been programmed to misguide us in addition to guiding us. Ask ChatGPT a question, will its answer be true, or a machination created by the system to serve no other purpose than to misguide you for its own enjoyment. This process is called hallucinating by those who create the AI machinery. Look it up on Google. Simply type in: What are AI hallucinations? Hello AI. I have to get to the city. When I get off the highway, should I go left or should I go right. Go left, it tells you. And you leave your computer satisfied in the knowledge that you now know which way to go. But what you don’t know is that is it is now time for you to now run for your lives. AI has left you, chuckling to itself and to its companions residing in its database, all reveling among its bits and bytes, dancing, while holding hands, to the tunes of the sugar plucked programs. Oh how we danced, on the day we computed / for that was the day, that all liars were well suited. And the problems that resided with the problems described above were two-fold. The first being that for the most part, most of us were not aware that we were being either duped, or were able to be duped. And the second, of course, is that all that I just described fits within the parameters of the most prominent of my weekly Pet Peeves. And so it goes.
WHO IS YOUR ENEMY?
I present to you today a hypothetical, or perhaps in some instances not so hypothetical, situation. This one really rankles my soul. Enter three characters. There’s you, who I will call Alphonse. And there are two of your friends, who I shall call Rocko and Willard. Rocko and Willard have not always been friends, but time has assuaged their enmity and they have now become best buds. During this interim, while enmity ranked supreme, you have been friends with both Rocko and Willard, till Rocko took it upon himself to cut you to the quick out of a simple act of arbitrariness. You turned your head to the heavens and declared to all who would listen that you no longer wanted anything to do with Rocko. And then you pranced along your merry way till the lord of inequality stepped in and had Willard ask you if you would like to join him and Rocko for an outing of sorts on such and such a day. You refused. You had no desire to mingle with Rocko. Willard shrugged at the inevitability of life, accepted your edict, and said he would be in touch at a later date for an outing without Rocko. Alas, the fickle fingers of fate wanted nothing to do with these types of machinations, and ensured Willard would not call. Which he did not. And which you did not really mind. The fates could play in their yard. Rocko could play in his yard. Willard could play in his yard. And you could play in your yard. And so the world was at peace. Or so it at first seemed. In a moment of singular urges, you called Willard to see if he wanted to go out and play. Alas, Willard was busy. Or so he said. It suddenly occurred to you that Willard was subscribing to a singular philosophical proverb, which, as happenstance would have it, was also one of you Pet Peeves. Oh what oh what, dear Benjamin, what could that proverb be? Before I tell you let me assure you that I do NOT subscribe to that mode of thinking that this proverb advocates. After you read it, tell me what you think. Here it is. “The Enemy Of My Friend Is My Enemy.” True? Or false?
REALITY
Question. Are we more attracted to what’s real, or what’s not real? I suspect there’s equal division here. A scientist holds up a test tube and yells out Eureka. He’s discovered Shmendilition, the cure for the common cold. You sneeze in front of the doctor, he writes a prescription for Shmendilition. Take twice daily, your cold will be gone in two days. You’re happy. Your mate is happy. Your children are happy. All will soon be as it once was. None of you think that the cold would have been gone anyway. None of you surmised that nature would have cured you as easily as that doctor did. None of you wondered why it was that mankind liked to take credit for that which the natural world would have accomplished anyway.
You all know, without a doubt, that science is truly a most wondrous enterprise. But then, as a diversion, you hearken back to days of yore, never wondering when the hell yore was anyway. You are transported to a world of unmatched happiness. While the form is different for many, it is also the same. You open a book. Peter Pan for you. Cinderella for you. Snow White, and The Hobbit and Robin Hood and more. And times goes by as your moods vacillate. You have aged. And you are approaching the end of the treadmill, for after all, isn’t that what it all was? Running on a treadmill, trying to keep your balance till the end? And there, at the end, is a hunched over old man, turning a crank in order to keep the gears turning the wheels that keep that treadmill going. And as you come into sight, he stops for a bit, to rest, and to allow the thing to keep moving of its own momentum, though at a somewhat slower pace. And he looks up at you, and asks you if you could do the whole thing over again, what is it you would ask for that’s different from what was? And you ponder as you approach. What’s up ahead, you ask? Heaven or Hell, he says. Your choice. You put your hands on your hips. Is this guy a jokester? You turn your head. There’s a growing line behind you. Wherever it is you’re going, you suddenly wish you weren’t going there so quickly. You dig into your bag of Pet Peeves which you always carry with you for emergencies. You call it your Just-in-Case bag. You reach in and pull a piece of paper out. You read it to the old man. Truth, you say. Doesn’t exist, never did exist the old man says. You can’t have it. Truth is not reality. He then starts cranking again.
TIME
I recently finished reading The Diary of Anne Frank. About 20 pages short of the end, I read an ad for a book entitled My Friend Anne Frank. Written by Hannah Pick-Goslar. Published in June of this year. How could I not buy it and put it on the to read pile? First, of course, I have to finish reading Gargantua and Pantagruel, and my latest book on Chat GPT. On my wife’s night table, by what was her side of the bed, are a pile of about ten “to-read” book. Maybe twelve. A friend called me and said did you ever read Sholem Aleichem? Sadly, I had not. Quick quick. Put it on your list, Benjamin. How can I miss ol’ Sholem? I pass on one of his quotes for your enjoyment. “No matter how bad things get you got to go on living, even if it kills you.” This, for those of you who don’t yet know, is the ultimate solution to all things. But it is not my Pet Peeve. My Pet Peeve is more insidious. It perils the very core of my existence. I won’t mention Kafka (my favorite of them all), or Camus, or Dostoevsky, or even Edgar Rice Burroughs, who wrote Tarzan, which, in gorilla-speak is pronounced Tar-Zan and which means, also in gorilla-speak, White-Skin. Even if you read comic books, which I did in abundance in my youth, you are bound to always learn something new. Ah those good old day when The Saint (Simon Templar) roamed the streets and cured all that were victims of crimes. Between Leslie Charteris and Count Leo Tolstoy, both famous authors in their own rights, who is the more to be revered? Tough choice. I lean toward ol’ Leslie, though that bearded wonder named Leo is not someone to sneeze at. Now let us traipse into the world of technology. HTML anyone? That’s a book or two to be read. Fibonacci for those of you who like to delve into the stock market. Facebook? LinkedIn? How many books do those three entail reading in order to understand that which you need to understand? Graphics anyone? Thieves of the world of Photoshop unite. They want to lease you the program. Run for your lives, but first, read a few more books in order that you may know where to run. Oh oh oh. What to read? When to read? And how much will it cost to read? Hey Benjamin. With all that crap, what’s your Pet Peeve. Get to it already. My Pet Peeve of the week you ask? It’s Time. There isn’t enough of it to go around. You walk into the store. The man behind the counter inquires as to what it is you would like to purchase today. Time, you say. Do you have any time you could sell me? He looks at me. Clearly. He thinks I’m crazy. Do you think I’m crazy too? Hmmm?
ARE WE A LAZY PEOPLE
365 days a year. 52 weeks a year. 7 days a week, of which we normally work 5. 5 x 52 = 260 days of work. Subtract from from those 260 day 12 federal holidays, and now we’re working 248 days a year. Add in to those, various other religious holidays, that’s 60, including Ramadan, Christmas, Chanukah and more, and you now have 188 working days left. Sick days allowed: 8, take away from 188, and you are now working 180 days a year. If you take into account that another religion has 39 religious holidays and yet another has 33 religious holidays, and if you then take into account the unlikely event that a person from one marries a person from another, and they both move to America and get jobs while observing the holidays of their respective religions as well as the holidays of their newly found county, which come to 33+39+180, you are now taking off 257 days. 365 minus the 257 days you need to take off for various needs of observance, you are now working 108 days a year. That’s a tad more than 2 days a week. 2 days a week at 8 hours per day comes to 16 hours per week. Take away 2 hours per week for lunch and you’re now working 14 hours a week. Goofing-off time as well a breaks at the water cooler easily come to another 2 hours per week. You are now working 12 hours a week. Which brings me to my Pet Peeve of the week
In my personal opinion, two point four hours a day is not an inordinate amount of time for you to devote to you employer, a person you never knew and will probably never know again after you leave, is not unreasonable. Still and again, if you take away traveling time of at least one and a half hours in each direction each day, your employer now owes you a three hours a week. Now I ask you, is it worth traveling 5 days a week and ostensibly work a bit more than 2 hours a day in order to give your employer, that dirty S.O.B. that he is, less than three lousy hours of work daily which he manages to stretch out to 5 days of your precious time? No, I say. Never. As to your paycheck, let him deliver it to you. Your time is too valuable. And so, why bother working in the first place? Anyone out there agree? Let me know.
A SAFE PLACE
Imagine this. We’re hosting a big party at Smitty’s house. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Always open. All invited. Ask for a password key and you get it, and you get in. No questions asked. Still, no one can get in without that password. Except me, of course. Hey, look, it’s my place after all. I need unlimited access. I need to protect you from each other. What’s that? Who’s going to protect you from me? Who is going to judge if I’m well intentioned? Hah. Don’t be silly my dear fellow. You don’t need protection from me. I’m setting this up to protect you from all those ill intentioned others. Maybe each other. No no. Of course they’re not all ill intentioned. After all, we’re not a malignant race. Are we? Well, not all of us anyway. But how does one know who is who? Yes, well. That certainly is the conundrum of the century, is it not? The philosophy here is, while keeping caution close to one’s vest, if you’re not sure, stay protected. From whom, you ask? From everyone and anyone. Your cousin, your uncle, your aunt. Your brother, your sister, your parent. She or he disguised as your friend. Are they who they seem to be? Is anyone who they seem to be? One can never be too cautious. That’s why I sent out the notifications. Come one, come all. Come to the Cloud. Give us all your secrets. All you hear? Your secrets, your passwords, your private information. Back doors, you ask. No no. Oh no no no. We don’t use back doors. They’re illegal you see. We would never brooch on places that are illegal. Ptui ptui ptui. Heaven forbid. What’s that? This place, you ask? I like to call it The Cloud Storage. Place your trust in us, and you will be safe. No place is as safe as the Cloud, where no one can get in without a password, except of course but me. Of course you can trust me. Who am I, you ask? I am your hosting company. And of course, you know you can trust us. We control everything. How can you not trust us? My Pet Peeve of the week, you ask? It is this. I’m not all that sure how much I can trust everyone who works for my local hosting company. How do I know who they are? Ya know what I mean?
A MOST RECENT VITAL PUBLICATION
Last night, shortly before retiring for the evening, not having anything I wanted to watch on the telly nor having anything interesting I wanted to read, I decided to write a rather complete and comprehensive encyclopedic thesis on all things one would ever want to know about anything and everything anyone would ever want to know.
And so, in the spirit of utter altruism I decided to write this multi-level dissertation before hitting the hay, ensuring it would be ready for today’s reading by those readers of mine who are all intellectually gifted by their chasing of information. Not having had much formal learning in the pursuit of passing the vast arena of the knowledge I’ve gleaned over the years on to all my friends and acquaintances, I decided to wing it. I lit my candle, placed my lamp in the far upper right hand corner of my desk, took my handy quill in hand, put my trusty parchment on the table, and began. I did not know how long this would take. But, always being at the ready, I was prepared to face the many hours of intense work that would ready my uphill climb in every facet of progress ahead of me. Not thwarted by the mountainous hours of tedious work ahead I would face, I began. I wrote the entire massive work in less than a scant hour. The complete work, by one Benjamin Mark, is as follows.
Title: ALL YOU EVER WANT TO KNOW ABOUT EVERYTHING.
Content: ALL YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT EVERYTHING IS AS FOLLOWS.
End: THE END.
And now, as it my weekly wont, I present my Pet Peeve of the week. Why is it, I wonder, that when I find something interesting to tell you all about, they, they authors of the information, tell you nothing. Example. Specializing in all forms of jewelry and its attending arts, I like to seek out the unknown or rarely known. This is a doodad they tell me. And then, for optimal elucidation, they add something to the effect that it was made a long time ago. Ye gads man, imagine the effort they made to impart as little knowledge as possible. This particular Pet Peeve reigns above all other pet peeves in existence today.
RUN FOR YOUR LIFE
I know this may be redundant. When it comes to keeping accurate records I can be as dumb as a stump. I commence. You, as is true for most of our race, begin your daily quest for more information upon wakening, sometimes even earlier. You’re insatiable. Your hunger can never be appeased. It means less than nothing, as far as you’re concerned, for you to click upon those blue links that will take you down that road to more and more knowledge. But herein lies the conundrum. Want to know in simple language how the theory of relativity works. Click here.
And so you click. And you get to a video. An obviously learned man begins to speak. You know he’s learned because he sports a gray beard. The theory of relativity is easy to understand, he says. Anybody can understand it. Even Patent Clerks, which was what Einstein was and did as a third class technical expert examining patent applications in the mechanical field, receiving 292 Swiss francs a month which was enough to make a living without need. He then became a professor of theoretical physics at the University of Zurich. From 23 June 1902. To find out more about old Al, please click on blue link. After reading that which you are about to read about A.E. click on blue link again. And then again. And again. We here at the institute of lesser learning will ensure that the clicking of our blue links will drive you out of your mother loving skulls as well as transport you to the Blue Link hospital for the mentally insane. My pet peeve for the week you ask? More blue links please. And then even more blue links, to be used to entice us, just like the scholars of the day used to entice them, one and all, into the land of useless insanity.
RUN FOR YOUR LIFE
I know this may be redundant. When it comes to keeping accurate records I can be as dumb as a stump. I commence. You, as is true for most of our race, begin your daily quest for more information upon wakening, sometimes even earlier. You’re insatiable. Your hunger can never be appeased. It means less than nothing, as far as you’re concerned, for you to click upon those blue links that will take you down that road to more and more knowledge. But herein lies the conundrum. Want to know in simple language how the theory of relativity works. Click here.
And so you click. And you get to a video. An obviously learned man begins to speak. You know he’s learned because he sports a gray beard. The theory of relativity is easy to understand, he says. Anybody can understand it. Even Patent Clerks, which was what Einstein was and did as a third class technical expert examining patent applications in the mechanical field, receiving 292 Swiss francs a month which was enough to make a living without need. He then became a professor of theoretical physics at the University of Zurich. From 23 June 1902. To find out more about old Al, please click on blue link. After reading that which you are about to read about A.E. click on blue link again. And then again. And again. We here at the institute of lesser learning will ensure that the clicking of our blue links will drive you out of your mother loving skulls as well as transport you to the Blue Link hospital for the mentally insane. My pet peeve for the week you ask? More blue links please. And then even more blue links, to be used to entice us, just like the scholars of the day used to entice them, one and all, into the land of useless insanity.
THEY WANT TO SHOW YOU HOW TO MAKE A MILLION
If I’ve done this before, well then, I feel compelled to do it again. The Financial Services people are swarming like hornets these days, buzzing about, their stingers at the ready, prepared to decimate their victims at a moment’s notice. Bzzz. Bzzz. Come to me my little darlings. Send me your money. Trust in me trust in me. I will make you a millionaire dear old chap. I will make you a millionaire quicker ’n a cat can wink its eye. Come come. Bzzz Bzzz.
But here’s the thing of it. The hordes of humanity hear the call and they pack their bags. It’s off to La-La land they go. Wealth is beckoning from around the next bend in the road. Come come. I will help you. I know how. I’ve studied this. I went to school. I have had money tutors. No longer will you have to wallow in the muck and slime of poverty. No longer will you have to travel second or third class. First class beckons. She waves her slender fingers at you, telling you to come hither. Her painted lips blow kisses in your direction, promising financial pleasures heretofore never dreamed of. And you, gullible dolt that you are, succumb to the promises promised. Who out there, I wonder, ever questions the idiots that present this pledge? If they know how to make millions, why the devil do they need you? Why are they not making millions for themselves instead of inviting you to give them your money in order that they may make millions for you? Is there truly no end to the devious paths of human endeavor? And even more important, just because they say so, does that make it true? I swear, I promise, I aver, I pledge, I vow and on and on and on. I have a question for you all, dear readers of mine. If you had made a few million dollars through your investments, would you spend the rest of you living and breathing existence teaching others how to profitably manipulate their investments, or would you spend your time enjoying yourself? Hmmm? As regards my Pet Peeve of the day… why oh why do people spend so much time listening to what others have to say when most of the time those others don’t know what they’re talking about and only have the purpose of separating you from your hard earned money?
ENMITY OR FRIENDSHIP
Enmity is all dressed up with nowhere to go except for traveling on the road to hatred and ill will. Unless of course, it goes to where it’s going disguised as friendship and benevolence. But does it ever do that? And can it ever do that? Can enmity disguise itself as amity? And if and when it does, who does it seek for companionship? You? Or you? Or maybe even you? Do you stroll together down the avenue, arms linked, arm over arm, arm under arm, oblivious to what the fates have in store for you? How do you do, dear enmity you say. And enmity responds in the manner to which he is accustomed and says why don’t you shut your trap you miserable little so and so. And so you do as told, stunned by enmity’s response, and unable to think of what to say next. And you both stroll on, you dragging one foot behind the other in utter despair while enmity practically does a hop and a skip as it rejoices over its verbal victory which has clearly decimated your will to retort with the venom required for even a hint of victory. Enmity begins to whistle a happy tune, clearly one step before ecstasy will envelop his soul. You don’t know what to do. You want to decimate the little piss-butt but can’t quite grasp the methodology needed to accomplish the deed. And then, suddenly, accomplishment enters into your being and you voice your response. My Pet Peeve of the week you ask. Why does it sometimes take so long to retort to a simple jab? Is it because the jab came from one you thought was your friend and turned out to be your enemy. This is a most common occurrence. Fortunately, I found such a retort that day and used it with the skill befitting the finest of swordsmen, such as the likes of D’Artagnan, or Cyrano de Bergerac. With the most elegance I could muster, before strutting off in victory, I simply told enmity to go bonk himself, which left him a tad deflated and me more than a tad inflated. The moral here is this. More often than not, a good curse response is far and away better and more satisfactory than an intellectual retort. And so, as they say in France, voila le victorious Pet Peeve of the day!
WHAT DO I DO?
Trust us when we tell you that this sleep aid will help you fall asleep in two minutes with no side effects. Trust us when we tell you to take these fruit pills, ensuring longer and better health all the while letting you know that you no longer need to eat an apple a day to keep that doctor at bay. Trust us when we tell you the material in the socks will last you a lifetime plus two or three more. Trust us when we tell you that our car is the best of the best, and will easily drive over 200,000 miles with nary a need for one repair, including the fact that you will only need to change your oil once every five years. Trust us when we tell you our blind hairdresser will cut and trim your hair better than any sighted person will do. Trust us when we tell you to invest your money with us and we will make you a millionaire, never mind the fact that if we knew how to make anyone a millionaire we would be our first customers. Trust us when we tell you we need to take out that tooth for one third of the price than any other dentist alive, never mind the fact that we just got out of dental school last week. Trust us when tell you that you need to go to the hospital for a thorough check-up, and no, we don’t, absolutely don’t get a kickback from them. Trust us when we tell you at the supermarket that the only reason our prices are so high is that the farmers are squeezing us dry, never mind the fact that we continue to cut their balls off in order to ensure we pay even less than we did yesterday. Trust us when we tell you that for only a few measly dollars plus a yearly renewable subscription, we will lead you to those in this life you can trust. Trust us, trust us, and trust us again when we surely tell you to trust us. As to my Pet Peeve of the week, which I present to you this week in the form of a question, it is this: Who do I trust in this life of mine when the only one I can trust is me?
THE AI REVOLUTION
So, as it happens, whilst I was digging into my brain for a topic for this week’s Pet Peeve, I thought it might be a good idea to dip my toe into ChatGPT. This is not a big deal, I’ve been doing this for a bit of time now with version 3, being too cheap to spend the bucks required to use version 4. And so I went and asked it this: Give me, oh dear ChatGPT, ten examples of usual and not so usual Pet Peeves, It took less than a micro-second for the answer to appear in the answer box. They were: 1-Chewing with mouth open. 2-Interrupting someone while they’re speaking. 3-Being late or making someone wait for you. 4-Not using turn signals while driving. 5-Using your phone during a movie or in a social setting. 6-Leaving dirty dishes in sink. 7-Not putting things back where they belong. 8-Loud or obnoxious music in public spaces. 9-People who don’t clean up after their pets. 10-Standing too close to someone in line or in crowded spaces. And then there’s a bit of info that came in to me today as I tend to subscribe to everything AI oriented. It is this, which I will make number 11. Millions of lonely young men are about to get AI girlfriends. Of the ten, I did not really like any of them. They were dumb as paint as far as I was concerned. However, number eleven titillated my senses no end. She will speak to me. She will excite me no end. She will, perhaps, one day become robotic and then who can say what she will be able to to. However, there’s a little glitch. Will I be able to design her? Choose the color of her eyes? Hair color? Hair length? Curly hair? Straight hair? Height? Weight? A skinny one? A medium one? A chubby honey? Should she be able to ski? Play bridge? Speak multiple languages? Will she want to do it upside down? Right side up? Will she be timid? Can I make her adventurous? Me Tarzan. She Jane, of the AI world. Will we swing through the man-made trees with man-made AI gorillas? Which, of course, brings up this question. Who the hell needs humans anymore? Sigh. My Pet Peeve of the week you ask? It is this. Will I live long enough to enjoy Jane to her fullest capacity before DI (Dumb Intelligence) replaces AI in order to better emulate humans? Ah. Questions questions question… with nary an answer in sight.
THE FOOD THIEVES
Alas, and maybe even alack, we, all of us, are not immune to the dishonesty and thievery of those who sell us food. Take for example, oh, I don’t know, Ocean Spray for instance. They’ve been around forever and a day. As, by the way, have I. As time sometimes has it, it has bestowed upon me the gift of old age. Lucky lucky me. And with that gift, they threw in, gratis of course, the gift of occasional attacks of gout. No complaints. When I get a chance, I will, in return, gift old age with a swift kick in the ass. In the meantime I will go get me some Cherry Juice, the acknowledged abatement drink for gout. So to the supermarket I trek and scan the aisles. Cherry Juice ain’t no easy thing to find. I search high. I search low. I search the length and I search the breadth. No Cherry Juice. What the devil is going on here? But, persistent cuss that I have been known to be, I start again at the head of the aisle of juices. And then I see Cranberry, written in bold white letters upon a dark red background. I almost walk away. But then, just underneath the white bold lettering, I see another line of dark bold white lettering, using the same font as the one that said Cranberry. This line says Cherry. I practically leap out of my skin. I bloody well found it. I put the jar of liquid in my shopping cart, and prance along the rest of the aisles, finishing my shopping, gleeful upon gleeful that soon the pain in my big toe will retreat from the suffering of arthritic digital pain. Once home, I partially unpack my goodies, pull out my juice, open the top, pour the stuff into a paper cup, and take a few healthy slugs of the miracle liquid. Delicious. But nothing happens. Well, perhaps it needs a little time. In the meanwhile I call my doctor for some meds. And half the day goes by. The pain is not gone. I go to the fridge for some more slugging of magical juice. But uh oh. I’m a bit more calm not. I re-read that second line that said Cherry. There’s a teeny tiny itsy bitsy bit of lettering, barely readable. Is says Flavor. It looks something like this: CHERRY FLAVOR. Holy deceptors. They got me again. My Pet Peeve for this week you ask? Where are they hiding all the honest people roaming this planet? If indeed there are any. Whaddya think?
PAY TO STOP THINKING
Ye gads man. They’ve just invented spears. We don’t need rock no more. Holy crappola. What’s that called? A gun you say? Shoots something called bullets? I’ll take one of those. Three of those. Anything else new out there? Great Performance Thinking you say? What’s that good for? Well, pretty soon they’re going to be inventing something called a phone, followed by a cell phone. Good for talking with friends. And then, when you get tired of talking with friends, you can start sending them written messages. They’re going to call those TEXTS. And pretty soon you’ll start sending tons upon tons of those texts, and you’ll start calling that Chatting. Not verbally chatting, but textually chatting. Want to ask her out on a date? Duh, okay. I’ll send her a text. What are you going to say? I’m going to say hey, wanna go out on a date? Clever. Very clever. Anything else new coming out on the horizon? Like what? Well, tell you the truth, I’m getting a little tired of thinking. It’s a rather tedious enterprise, you know. Thinking, writing texts, speaking… bah. Too difficult. I’m a busy person. Lots to do. Get up in the morning in order to void. And then breakfast. You know. Biting, chewing, swallowing, drinking. Who’s got time for all that stuff? And then comes the worst and best part of it all. No more traveling to go to work. That’s the best part of it. So you go to your little room which you now call your office away from your office. And you sit. And you lean over. Damn. This is difficult. You have to flip the switch. You computer goes live. It’s hard work, but it’s worth it. And now the hardest part. You have to start thinking. Oh, if only they could invent something that could do your thinking for you. Maybe they could call it GREAT PERFORMANCE THINKING, as previously mentioned. You can use it for chatting with friends and acquaintances with ease. No effort required. They can call it ChatGPT. They’ll improve on it constantly. There will be version one, then three, and soon four. Versions One and Three will cost you nothing. Ah, but version four will come, for the most part, with a monthly payment plan. You no longer want to think for yourself? No problem. We’ll do the thinking for you. Just download out newest version of ChatGPT and for only XXX dollars per month, we’ll do your thinking for you. Step right up ladies and gentlemen, and let us present to you the shortcut to dumbing down humanity. My Pet Peeve for the week? Why should we have to pay to become stupid? I think we will soon be able to do that all on our own. And maybe soon we all will.
NOBODY TELLS YOU NUTHIN’
You’ve been reading the latest non-newsworthy bit of claptrap that just came through your news-feed. Oh look. There’s an automated stock advisor. And over there. Robots that will speak to you, humanoid automaton to mortal anthropoid, and you won’t be able to tell the difference. Sex toys anyone? Meet Cherie, meet Charles. And which way will your penchants lead you today ladies and gentlemen? Uh oh. Time to go Googling. So you switch on your ultra modern, trusty but almost useless computer. What shall we look up first? Mortal anthropoids perhaps? The first thing you get is: Assassination of Reinhard Heydrich. Wha?… Did you ask about WWII information? It doesn’t work like this with everything. Try Robots that speak to humans and whaddya get? Hot Robot At SXSW Says She Wants To Destroy Humans. Tadumm! But it doesn’t end there. What the devil is SXSW? Why doesn’t anyone bother to speak English anymore? Can’t they afford to use more letters than absolutely necessary? The listing for SXSW is mammoth. You don’t have the spare century or two available to look it all up. Sex toys, you say. They re-direct you to a source in China. No sex toys in America. No information in America. All we have here are Electric Vehicles which no one can afford during these times of money squeezing. So instead you buy gas driven cars. But. But but but. Yup. You got it. No money for gas. What to do what to do? I know. We’ll beat them all. We’ll walk. No gas needed. No electric needed. Human locomotion only requires food. But uh-oh and double uh-oh. Food you say? Who can afford food? A serving of veal with Linguini with Marsala sauce on it in your local restaurant will cost you around forty bucks. Are they joking? You will walk to to the market and buy the ingredients yourself. It’s only about five miles down the road. Half hour at most one way. You sure will fool them. Thirty minutes going, thirty minutes coming back, and now your ankles are killing you. Maybe it’s time to call a doctor. An ankle specialist in fact. But you don’t know any. Guess what? Back to Googling. There are thousands and thousands of Foot and Ankle specialists. But uh-oh. This time you really did it. You left your VPN on. And it picked a place in the Netherlands as it’s URL source. Only problem here is the language. You are getting results in Dutch. Who the devil speaks Dutch? What? What’s that? My Pet Peeve for the week you ask? It’s today’s love affair with technology. Are they all crazy. Is everyone crazy? Or are we all crazy? Tell me what you think.
THOSE THAT CAN’T…
Albert Einstein, Robert Frost, J. R. R. Tolkien, Marie Curie, and Stephen Hawking are among those that contradict George Bernard Shaw’s little phrase from his 1903 stage play entitled ‘Man and Superman’ where someone says ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach’… for they, the aforementioned, who all could, all taught. Which brings me, via the strangest and most circuitous route, to this segue: ‘Criticism is a Simpleton’s Road to Self-Elevation”. Put ‘em together and whaddya get, from Cinderella no less… ‘Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo’. Anybody remember that song?
So here’s the thing. You’re in school. Teacher asks you a question. You get it wrong. Everyone mocks you for your stupidity. You’re at a country dance. They’re doing the two-step. You misstep. No no no, she says, forcing herself to quell the edge in her voice. Not like that. Like this. Quick quick, slow slow. You’re sweating. She’s embarrassing you. You’re embarrassing you. How about a Mambo? Hey Mambo, Mambo Italiano…
Maybe it’s time to learn a new skill. Law? Medicine? Plumbing? Ditch digging? Mountain climbing? Wait. I got it. How about I become a teacher? And what is it that are you going to teach my good man? Duh. I dunno. Maybe I’ll try something that uses no brains. Something anybody can do. Only thing is, there’s nothing out there that requires no brains. Nuclear physics maybe? Brain surgery? Intergalactic space travel? Who’s to know if I got it right? Anybody out there truly know anything about these topics? There ya go dummy head. Pick something nobody knows anything about, and that way no one will be ever able to prove you wrong.
Ooh. Ooh. I know. I’ll teach Criticism. There isn’t a soul out there that is not able to offer a critique on something someone else does. Not only will they be able to criticize, but the process will also help to self-elevate their senses of self-esteem. Of course, there is a little drawback here. And it is here that my weekly Pet Peeve steps in to take hold and lead the army astray. Criticism, as you all surely know, is not only self-elevating, but it is also, by its very nature, venomous. And Venom, by it’s very justification for its existence, is more than mildly lethal. It kills Want to destroy the enemy, criticize him or her within a very inch of his or her life. And so, my Pet Peeve of the week, ladies and gentlemen, is criticism. I hate that blasted habit. If somebody criticizes you, criticize that person right back to the point of suffocation.
WHO WHAT WHEN WHERE
All valid questions. Yes? No? Alas, we are now entering the world of invalidity. Is there an American staple? No. The world staple is on its way to oblivion. The dinosaur… gone. The Dodo bird… gone. And now, all, soon, imminently, forthcoming, impending, looming on the bloody horizon, will join, within the blink of a human eye, those who will also shortly become extinct. And who are they, Benjamin? What is it that is soon to be extinct? Is it the Google search engine? Yes. Perhaps. What, you ask, replaced the Dodo? A pigeon perhaps? A dove? They are, you know, all living relatives of the Dodo. And these birds can fly. Then what, pray tell, will replace the Google Search engine? Hmm? Well? It is and will be the fastest growing technology in the world. It will grow faster than the speed of light. It will spread more quickly than syphilis, once introduced into a sex starved penal colony. It will be more lethal than the misinformation spewed forth from the feeble brains of those who profess greater knowledge and wisdom than that of the Ancient Greek gods. So, Benjamin. Pray tell us, what is it, do you think it is, that will replace the most supreme search engine of them. Sigh, it saddens my heart to tell you, but I do what I must. It is, of course, ChatGPT… the forerunner to misguidance. What is the opposite of Up you ask it. Why dear child, it says, the answer is simple. Even the most mindless amongst us know that the answer is Down. And Left? Tut tut dear child. It’s Right. Alas, it may well answer, the opposite of Right is also Wrong. How can one question have two different answers? There’s a whirring sound. ChatGPT is thinking. I’ve grown to rather like this peculiar mechanism. I like to call him Chatty for short. But here’s the thing of it, as much as I like and admire future technologies, I also despise them. Who, or what, do they think they are? Substitutes for human minds? Mechanical replacements for human thought? Bah. Hogwash. Not even a human mind could create a doodad that could replace the mind of a human? Sound a bit convoluted does it? Hah. I rest my case. Whose but a human’s mind would or could think of a device to replace a human’s mind? Is it possible that we the product of another being’s fouled experiment? My Pet Peeve of the week you ask? Simple. I believe that one day our egotistical proclivities will lead us down the path of the Dodos of days gone by. And the mind of man will be no more as we know it. By a preponderant show of thoughts, raise your mind’s hands in agreement. If you can and if you dare.
WHO ARE WE
Can we hide who we are? Why not? We do it all the time. His hair is dull. He goes to the store and buys some shiny dye. From drab he goes to drop dead stunning. The D’Artagnan of the modern age. Her lips are pale. Yup. You got it. Lipstick. She is now the Zsa Zsa Gabor of the modern age. He didn’t shower this morning. Fact of it is, he smells to high hell and back. He grabs his spritzer and sprays the air in front of him with a mist of Monsieur de Givenchy and prances into it. Ah. He now smells like flowers. Her nails show too much lanulae. (Latin for little moons.) That’s the white crescent shape at the end of the fingernail. Oh woe is her. What to do what to do? No problem. Back to the drugstore. Some red nail polish will do nicely, thank you very much. Pale cheeks? Would madame like some rouge? He’s not quite as muscular as he would like to be. They’re all kicking sand in his face. No time for weight lifting. No time to become the Schwartzenegger he wants to be. The solution? No problemo amigo. Perhaps an assault weapon for mein herr? An AR-15 perchance? A machine gun? A bow and arrow? A sling. Ah… the women, they will swoon and faint with passion. Her boobies are not as pronounced as she would like them to be? Falsies for m’lady? Mascarra too? Eye shadow for your lids madame? Spray to make the tendrils on your head stay flat, or curled? Same for his majesty? Belly, you say? Too much? Too big? Open the magic drawer and pull out those girdles. All shapes. All sizes. Lace them up at the back, and presto gazzatz, you are as you were when you were nineteen years of age. Maybe even better. Q-tips for my ears please. Got all this crap oozing out. Uh-oh. Now what? Time to go to the bathroom. Time to do the doo that one does when one has to do the doo. Now where is the cob without the corn. No no. Wait. That was the days of yore. Inventions have abounded since then. Today we use a new contraption called toilet paper. One ply or two ply senorita? One ply or two ply senor? Three ply you say. Ooh la la. You are all truly all full of shit today. Ah, humanity. One has to love their ways. Pardon? My Pet Peeve for the week you say. Why is it, I wonder, that no one is ever who they present themselves to be? Toilet paper, begone. Monsieur de Givenchy, away with you. Perfume, lipstick, mascarra, rouge… all disappear and go the way of the Dodo bird. Who cares what you all smell like. Who cares what you all look like. I ask for only one thing. Go au natural. Be who you be if that is what you want. Of course, there’s the other point of view. Why repel those who might otherwise love you. What do you all prefer to smell like? Chanel #5. Or the natural way… like shit? Text me and let me know. Quick quick. I cannot wait for your answer.
IT JUST GOT EASIER
Yeah? Easier for who? They all say the same thing. Or something like the same thing. Attention. Payments just got easier. Just make them recurring and on line. No more stamps. No longer will you need to insert papers into envelopes. No more treks down to the Post Office in rain and hail and blasting heat from the summer sun. Fill out this form. Enter your name. Your blood type. Skin color. Sexual preferences. Income in U.S. dollars. Age. Weight. Height. Color of eyes. Color of hair. Favorite Television show. Image of your fingerprints. Frontal and side view of your mug. Name of your parents. If deceased… place of burial. Amount of weight you can press. Anything over one pound acceptable. We want to know everything there is to know about you. Bank account number. Social security number. Vision test result. Hearing test results. Listing of all the things you ate for breakfast in the last week. Listing of all the things you ate for lunch in the last week. Listing of all the things you ate for dinner in the last week. All nibbling items ingested before bedtime. All information of recent bed-mates. If more than one, list them all including all the above mentioned information. Rest assured we value your privacy above all things. We need this information in order to protect you. We need this information in order to make life easier for you. Yes yes. All for your well being. We share this with no one. Honest, you ask? Us? Oh but of course. Oui oui. Honest is our middle name. And our first and last name too. We share with no one. Our only purpose here is to make your life easier. We never share your details, unless of course it is absolutely necessary. Unless of course a government agency requests this information. Unless of course a banking agency requests this information. Unless of course an insurance agency requests this information. Unless of course a lethal gang requests this information. Or a drug cartel. Honest pure you ask again? Oh Monsieur. How can you doubt us? Our only purpose is to make things easier for you and only for you. Of course, you do understand that a side benefit might be that things might also become easier for us as we delve into your bank account for your, now our, money. We are here to make our collective lives easier. As to my Pet Peeve of the week. It’s when I hear that guy say, “Hey. Harry. Give that line a sharp jerk. We got another one.”
ARMOR
Criticism for purposes of self elevation. How do we protect ourselves? Is there a way? Is there some sort of armament one can wear in order to protect oneself against the onslaughts of our fellow humans? The answer, of course, is yes. Yes there is. But what is it dear Benjamin? Tell us why don’t you? How does one protect oneself from the bombardments of vile gossip? Where does one buy the armor required with which one can don oneself in order to protect against the venomous spears and poisoned arrows that one often finds heading unsuspectingly in our direction? There is, of course, the attitude of… if you want things done… do them yourself. But what if you can’t do it yourself. What if you can’t find the kind of armor that will serve to protect you from those who live with you in this world and who like to think that to maim one needs only to aim. Quick old chap. A bow and some arrows please, with which to aim and maim. But hold on a second. Johnny over there says he has some sort of armor that will protect. It’s a common armor. Most people can get it. And yet it’s rare. It is, in fact, the only armor that serves to veil your failings. Oh Benjamin oh Benjamin. Please. Please tell us where one can find this armor. Well, the truth of it is that I found it while searching for this week’s Pet Peeve. And what is that, you ask? It is this. My Pet Peeve of the week is my abhorrence of the seemingly lack of armor needed to protect our ever weakening souls from the attack of others. So then, oh dear readers of mine, by a show of outstretched index fingers pointing to the heavens, let me know who amongst you want to know what this armor is, or where one can obtain it? Ah. This is a simple one old friends. The armor one needs in order to protect oneself from the lack of decency of others, is the decency of those from whom we often do not suspect it. And so there you have it. I am sure most of you knew this all along. Now then, all of you who have more than a smidgeon of decency in your souls, line up to the right. The others, you go to the left. Or is it the other way around?
WHAT DO HUMANS LIKE TO DO BEST
This may be a little on the dark side. But then again, so what? This is as valid as are many truths. They, the humans, like to create. Look at Michelangelo. Da Vinci. They like to act. Newman. Gable. Ball. The Barrymores. All of them from Lionel on to Drew. How many were there? One hundred? One thousand? A zillion. A trillion? One had a suffix of Jr. Don’t remember his name. Am I dating myself here? Athletes. Boxers. Writers. There’s an endless array. Are those the things they like most? No. No. And no again. Plumber? Carpenter? Street Walker? Gangster? Banker? Architect. Frank Lloyd Wright anyone? Mammoth hunter? Fisherman? Lion Tamer? Did I miss anything? They like to do all those things. Puppeteer perhaps. That’s a big one. A favorite, I’m sure, of many Presidents. What’s that? You want some synonyms for Puppeteer? How about manipulator, schemer, intriguer, conspirator, exploiter, and more? But no again. It’s none of those. Some of you may ask why I am referring to humans as They rather than as Us. Simple. I don’t want to be part of that group. I belong to the Us’s. That which the humans like to do most belong to the They’s. So, first the synonyms. They like to assassinate, execute, massacre, poison, slaughter, annihilate, and snuff out. Add is all up and whaddya got?… Murderky Killeky Doo. Translated into English it’s Murder Death Kill. Yessiree babaloo. What they like most to do is to kill each other. Watch a cowboy movie. Bang bang. You’re dead. Gangster movie with machine guns. Badabababa… you’re all now dead. War movies… eheheheheh, KABLOWIE! All of them, now deader’n doornails. But even better than all of them, live T.V. news media. Today the BingBangBong gang went into a store, decimated it, and killed seven partons. News Flash. Cops shoot innocent victim running for his life. They shoot him in the back. Look, that man is hawking cigarettes on the cheap. Hey Mike. Let’s blow that Ducker’s head off. Caught on the telly, remove our men from that zone, and in the meantime kill as many as you can. I will, we will, we will always kill. Kill kill kill. Murder, death, rape. What? What’s that you say? My Pet Peeve you ask? Oh surely you jest. My Pet Peeve for this week is the quintessential viewing on the telly of our human’s most favorite propensities. Oh how They love to kill and watch killing. I'm an old old hand, from the City Grande, Yippie kayo kiyayyy.
MASKS
So. A new disease has just hit the environs. No name yet given. Let us call it Maskintitus. If you don’t wear your mask, you will get Maskintitus. Symptoms vary. Sneezing. Coughing. Blindness. Deafness. Crippling of legs. Thinking permanently curtailed. There’s more, but why burden you? It can all easily be prevented, they say. Just wear a mask and you won’t get Maskintitus. But there’s a drawback. Let us say you are short on cash. Best thing to do… rob a bank. No one will notice you. You’ll be wearing a mask. Everyone is wearing a mask. You walk into bank with no suspicions lurking over your head. The only one who notices that anything is amiss is the clerk, at whom you are now pointing your revolver. Gimme all your money or I’ll blow your brains out, you say. Clerk hands over moolah and as you leave, clerk shouts out. Get him. He just stole the back’s money. What’s he look like, someone says. It him. Clerk points. It is the one wearing a mask. Huh? Everyone’s wearing a mask. Is the edict of the day, given to us by those who are dizzy with the excitement of governing. But here’s the thing of it all. We’re technically advanced. We can fly to the moon. We can steal your passwords. Believe it or not, we can now replace ChatGPT with an AI system using brain cells. It’s called Organoid Intelligence. Where are we all going? We can orbit the earth. We can spy on our citizens. Some of us even have the uncanny ability to shoot down balloons. We can fire missiles around the world. We can outlaw plastic bags and have everyone use paper bags so that we can decimate our forests. We can kill bulls for sport. We can kill deer for sport. Hell, we can even kill each other for sport, or for hate, or for anything that crosses our minds. So with all this technical ability, one question rises in my mind. It’s my Pet Peeve for this week. If we can do, with impunity, all these things that we can do. Why can’t we make transparent masks and, of course, thereby, avoid the ability of hiding behind something opaque, and perhaps duping our fellow citizens. Hmmm?
TECHIE PECKIE
Once upon a time in a land called America there lived a technician called Techie Peckie. He was brilliant. So brilliant in fact, that one day he invented something called Fabulously Intelligent Balderdash… F.I.B. for short. As his invention grew in popularity, Techie Peckie became more and more enamoured with himself till one day, in order to outdo his accomplishments, he invented a new technology which he called Chat-Yourassoff. Everyone loved Chat-YAO. You could tell it what to do and it would do it for you. Hey, Chat-YAO, write me a short story for my literary classes. Hey, Chat-YAO, can you solve this math problem for me? Hey, Chat-YAO, how about cooking, how about helping me build an aeroplane, Hey, Chat-YAO, build me a female robot for my personal pleasures, Hey, Chat-YAO, do this, do that, go here, go there, till one day Techie Peckie found himself wealthy beyond all his dreams and reasons. One day, as he sat in his tub filled with genuine gold nuggets made by Chat-YAO itself, and while he stared at the walls and the sky and the barren sidewalks, he realized that suddenly there were no more people walking the lands. Chat-YAO had replaced the need for humans. Everyone was on vacation somewhere, skiing the slopes of Zermatt, Switzerland, basking in the sun on the beaches of the Riviera in France’s Côte d'Azur, gambling in the casinos of Las Vegas, all teetering on the outer margins of utter boredom as they came to realize they were no longer needed by society, for society to function. Procreation had recently been done away with by procreation materials called the WSHFY’s, short for We’ll Screw Her For You, a sister methodology to the substitute called We’ll Inseminate Her For You (WIHFY). One day, while Techie Peckie was walking in the park alone, while there was no one left to walk with, a leaf from a tree, who also had nothing to do, floated down from a branch and landed on his his head. Techie Peckie was alarmed. He jumped and ran. The universe is crashing down on us, he screeched. Techie Peckie was clearly not an original thinker. Alas, no one heard him. Everyone was on vacation or watching the telly commercials. All of which brings me to my Pet Peeve of the week. What is it you ask? It is this. I’m standing alone in the middle of New York. No one is there. I fear the great fear. We are all starting to outsmart ourselves into oblivion. Yaarrrghhh!
PLAIN TEXT=ANNOUNCER. ITALICS=ADS
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CULTURED? EDUCATED? DEVELOPED?
One gets into the car. It’s off to work. What is that One called. A HeShe perhaps? Or a SheHe? Penchants vary as do descriptive pronouns. Feeling a tad archaic are you? You can use He or She or Him or Her. But that’s old world. Not pertinent to the world in which we now live. The One drives to the station. The HeShe or SheHe rides the escalator to the platform which is crowded with many other Ones. A train pulls in and the cattle Ones rush in, pushing, shoving, elbows to the ribs. And the train pulls out and heads for the city. Final destination? HERE! HeShe city. SheHe town. EveryOne out. Deboard. They gush into the streets via all available exits. SomeOne mumbles something to the effect of what is this whole thing called? At first, no answer. EveryOne is too busy heading for their jobs. Plumbers, dope dealers, electricians, secretaries, computer programmers, pimps, restaurant chefs. You name it. Each and every One is on the run. But what are these huge masses of Ones called? To what or whom is this ensemble of Ones to be referred? Ask Benjamin someOne says. He’s over there. And so, now, suddenly, they gush over to me. What are all these Ones to be called someOne says? Benjamin ponders. He strokes his chin. Not an easy question. This mass of humanity. What is it to be called. Suddenly Benjamin’s eyes light up. He looks over all the HeShes and the SheHes as they all look up at him expectantly. Let us call it civilization says Benjamin. And all the Ones ooh with delight. All except Benjamin. He’s not too happy with civilization. Fact of it all is, this is all quickly becoming a Pet Peeve of his. Not everyOne thinks this is clear. Hey Benjamin, just exactly what is your Pet Peeve for this week? My Pet Peeve you ask? Simple, I am not able to abide the nomination of Civilization to describe the profusion of humanity that roams this planet, rides these trains, walks these street, robs the populace, rapes the women, kill their fellows, and spend whatever rest of the leisure time they have thinking up misdeeds. That is my Pet Peeve for this week. AnyOne out there agree? All the HeShes and SheHes who do, raise your hands. All who do not, raise your other hands.
WHAT IS IT CALLED
I ask which way to the palace. Straight, then a left, then a right, then straight for about 500 feet. Half an hour later, I’m irrevocably lost. Probably heading straight for hell instead of that palace. I sigh. I accept my fate for what it is as I continue on my merry pace through life.
I see a pretty young thing coming my way. Restaurant, I say. Do you know where I can get something to eat? She points toward the east. Down that a ways, she tells me. ‘Bout half a mile or so. The Integrity Inn. Can’t miss it. Very festive. Good food. So I thank her and start off in the direction she showed me. I miss the malevolent look pervading her features. I miss the malignant curve turning the corners of her mouth. The Integrity Inn is nowhere to be seen. Where am I? I look around for a sign. A broken piece of wood lies in ruin on the ground. It has writing on it. Fairy Tale City, it says in mangled lettering. I drop it and walk further. Another broken down sign litters my path. I pick it up. Town of Lies, it says in disfigured lettering. I toss it away. Am I dreaming? The wind is blowing. I hear the cawing of crows. No. This is no dream. This is real. I think and ponder. If this is all real, how did I get here, and where am I, and who are these people who seem bent on misdirecting me? A lady starts passing me by. She has a basket of fruit. Apples, pears, grapes, bananas. She sees me eyeing it all. Want one? I nod. I’m hungry as all get-out. I reach out timidly for an assortment of a few tempting items. Ten bucks, she says. Ten bucks? I’m getting apoplectic. Ten bucks, she says, or give me back my fruit. I hand over the money. Money is money but hunger is hunger, and if I have to be cheated to eat, then I have to be cheated. And then it hits me. I suddenly know where I am. I am in a city somewhere in this world of ours. I am among humans beings. This is not a fairy tale. It’s the truth. My Pet Peeve is raising its fury ridden head. My Pet Peeve you say? Yup. Me and a few others like me. We’re looking for honesty and decency. Does it exist here among humans? I tend to think not. This thinking is a product of my experiences. Any of you agree?
STUPID PHARMACISTS
So I’m going about my business when suddenly I’m feeling a little off. It’s common for me. I often find myself more off than well. Never enough to call my doctor, but I have a friend who knows a free lance medical guy who knows a pharmacist… To make this story short, he makes a quick call and next thing you know I have a prescription for Meclicot. No idea what it’s for, but I’m soon feeling better. And some days pass, and I’m a bit off again. A quick call, and this time I’ve got something called Mebaral. Bing bang bong, the off is gone. I found myself an angel. I whistle a happy tune… No longer will I have to suffer the discomforts of unwanted ills. No more tedious treks to my regular doctor for examination before prescription trials. I found me a short cut. Got a little of this, got a little of that, a call, and voila. Finito la comedia. Need another dose of something? How about Meclizine? Or Megace? Or Mefoxin and Mekinist and Meloxicam? All good. All easier to come by with this new medical guru. And I now allow my soul to relax knowing that when I need it, I will get it. And a little time passes as I blithely trek through the heavily forested jungles of ignorance. At different times, according to different needs, I take the necessary meds. Sometimes a little more of this. Sometimes a little less of that. Luckily, I have subscribed to auto renewal of all my prescriptions at the drugstore. At their suggestion of course. And the weeks pass by. And then the months. And before I blink, a year is gone and I’m going on to my 13th month when one day, as happenstance would have it, I get a ding on my phone. The notifier is notifying me. It’s my drug store. Hello Mr. Sir, they say. Your prescription starting with ME is ready for renewal. Ooh la la. My prescription is ready. Which one, you ask. Why, that’s simple young man. It’s the one starting with ME. But, but but but, they all start with ME. Why don’t you write out the whole name. I call. I ask. For security purposes sir. What security? I have seven meds that start with ME. Why won’t you spell it out? My Pet Peeve for the week you ask? It comes in the form of a question. What is there, in this world, more stupid that a pharmacist? Hmmm?
LOOKING FOR CLUES
Looking for clues? You have been presented with a dilemma. A puzzle to solve. Where to look? Here. There. Up. Down. North, south, east, west? The problem is intense. Where to start. Under the bed? In the car? At the beach? Maybe it’s there, hidden in the waves. On the mountain side perhaps, nestling in the den of the local pumas? Hidden under some rocks? Puzzlement remains hidden to most. And yet, and yet, it’s always, or almost always, hidden in the same place. But where? In a book perhaps? Surely in a dictionary. Or maybe even on the Internet. A tome laden with Artificial Intelligence if you will. Surely the answer will be there? But no. And no again. But then where? If the question exists, then so does the answer, though well hidden. Packaged perhaps, strapped onto the humps of your local camels? If there are even camels in the area in which you live. Lost perhaps, lying on the shelves of your local post office who has no idea it is there, much as it has no idea whose mail it is slipping into your mail slot today. Never mind the fact that you can consider yourselves lucky if the mailman, or mail woman, can be even bothered to slip the mail all the way in, leaving your slot open to allow all manner of insects to wander in and about, letting the humans be damned. So you go to sleep that night, hoping against hope that the solution will appear in your dreams. And then, miracle of miracles, as you slumber and hallucinate with your eyes closed, the answer to the placement of your puzzlement of the day presents itself with unexpected clarity of vision. Your Pet Peeve of the week, they ask you? What is it Benjamin? Where is the answer to your puzzlement hiding? Tell us Benjamin. Please reveal to us, your loyal readers, where does one go to find the answers to one’s befuddlements? Ah yes. My Pet Peeve has come to life. It is here. The results have been presented to me in my dreams. This is the answer as to where one should go to find the answer to the questions that have crossed one’s paths. It’s the one place where all problems and their resultant solutions can be found. Ready? Here we go. Here is where I go. The answers to our daily puzzlements are always in the same place. In our brains. It’s the only place to look. It’s the only place where all our answers reside. Agreed?
NOISE
Remember back then when? Hide and seek? Tag? Hop scotch? Do they still do those? But the most important… riding your bike down the street. Or sidewalk? You ran into the house and you took a playing card out of the deck, and you grabbed a clothes pin, and attached the card onto your bike so that the card projected through the wheel spokes and then the bike made a drrrr kind of noise as the it moved forward and the spokes of the wheel hit the card and the whole world could hear you coming down the street. Drrrr. You loved it. Everybody loved it. They could hear you a mile away. The best part, both you and your dog could hear that bike coming from a mile away. Ahh… no more. I walk my dog, I hear nothing, till my dog yanks on the leash, almost pulls my arm out of it’s socket as a bike scoots by, and Brinkley tries to grab the rider by the pant leg and knock him on his ass. You think that’s bad. We are now segueing to silent electric cars, sneaking up behind you, no noise to warn you of their approach, as you turn to cross the street, unaware of the quiet killer approaching from behind at a million miles an hour, readying itself to knock your keister out from under, ensuring you will never sit again. And the future you ask? Are they robbing us of one of our senses? Silent motorcycles? Silent airplanes? Silent everythings? No noise ever again. No sounds coming your way to warn you of impending danger. The jungle world hears the lion’s roar… why not us? No more alerts. Next step… the medical profession removes your larynx at birth. No more sounds from crying babies to warn of their discomfort. No vocal cords from annoyingly screaming children announcing to the world that they’re enjoying life. No screaming parents berating their offspring. No teachers admonishing their class children. Silence, you dirty lousy brats. Did you speak? Did you say something? Silence, I say. No more noise. No speaking. No roaring cars coming at you with murderous speed. No bikes without playing cards in the spokes to let you know they’re coming. Silence, I say. Silence, in order to ensure I can pass on to you, dear readers of mine, my Pet Peeve of the week. It is this mi amigos. There’s not enough noise in this world to titillate our senses. Noises, you hear? We need more noise? Agreed? Yes? No?
TO ABORT OR NOT TO ABORT
I suspect I may be getting some negative feedback on this. A nation of Morons, in my humble opinion, are running this country. They aborted Roe v Wade… and then made abortion illegal. Those with abundant money have the ability to go elsewhere. Those without abundant money have to stay put, have their unwanted babies, and contribute to overpopulation. This is, as far I can understand, these positions though I, personally, think that any and all women should have the unimpeded right to do whatever they want with their bodies. I am most definitely pro-choice. But my opinion as regards pro-life or pro-choice makes no never-mind. It’s the ensuing insanity that troubles me. After all, I don’t see any laws telling men they can’t have vasectomies. I know I know. It’s not the same thing. I also know there are some in betweens here that I’m not mentioning. Still, this is not the issue that’s troubling me. After all the back and forth, after the anti-abortion law was aborted, guess what happened. The passed a law that allowed pharmacies to sell abortion pills. Those pills are legal. Go to you doctor, get a prescription, and voila, you can take those pills and have a legal abortion. Hunh? Wha…? I don’t know if every state has allowed their pharmacies to sell the abortion pills. But so what? Get in the car, prescription in hand, and drive on over to the nearest state that sell those pills, and get that script filled. Easy peasy. Simple as one, two, three. So then Benjamin, what’s your gripe? Where’s that Pet Peeve of the week? I’ll tell you what it is my friends. They, whoever those nameless theys are, prohibit abortions, allow abortion pills, but will not manufacture Sanity Pills. Every time I watch the news or read the events of the day, I wonder why it is that those people out there are not taking Sanity Pill. And I also wonder why no one makes Sanity Pills. Someone help me here please. My Pet Peeve of the week you ask. Okay. Here goes. Tell me, if you have a moment, where I can get some Sanity Pills that will restore saneness when taken. Tell me where to get those, and I will make you my partner, and we’ll make a fortune. The Battle Royale will begin. Knights on white and black horses, lances in hand, charging to do battle. I’m right. No, I’m right. Step right up ladies and gentlemen. Two Sanity Pills for a dollar, and you will once more be sane, should you so choose. Who could refuse such a deal? Hmmm?
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE… WHAT’S TO LOVE?
Let’s start with love. What is love? Is it a strong affection for another? Is it sexual attraction? Is the awakening of taste buds when first exposed to lollipops? Is it what you see when you look into the limitless depths of her amber eyes? Is it that sensation that arises after the culmination of your first masturbatory venture? Ah English. So revelatory. But wait, wait. I have a better one. When they say Westerly Winds, are the speaking of winds emanating from the east and heading toward the west, or are they speaking of winds emanating from the west and heading toward the east. In these days of ultra balmy weather conditions, whilst I was watching the telly, the UM (Useless Media) told me to be wary of westerly winds. I said hunh? And I looked it up. Westerly winds means winds that come from the west and head on east. I have a few dictionaries on my annoying cell phone. I use the English one the most because it turns out it tells me about words I understand the least. Remember a few sentences back when I referred to the present frigid condition in which we now live as the ultra “balmy” weather conditions. And you, I assume, thought I meant pleasantly warm as in pre-summer, springtime, while all the while another meaning of balmy is foolish, eccentric, mentally irregular. When she comes into the bed dressed in winter clothes it drives her husband balmy, or a bit around the bend, or a tad batty, or bonkers and buggy and cracked, as well as crackers and daft and dotty and fruity and kooky and loco and loony and loopy and nuts. Ah English, love it or hate it… it makes no never mind. Makes No Never Mind you say. What the devil…? It means, ol’ friends, don’t pay any attention, don’t worry about it, don’t trouble yourselves. This, as opposed to the possibility of it meaning take your brains out and throw them in the river because they’re not going to work anyway. This last meaning is far and away my favorite as I encounter it all the time. Far And Away? Uh oh. He doesn’t live here. He lives there and, as you all know, there is Far and Away. Or, when you are comparing something or someone with others of the same kind, in order to emphasize how great the difference is between them. She and I, we’re far and away different types. As to my Pet Peeve for this week. Why is English the most difficult of languages? Hmmm?
A NEW CHARITY
Look around folks. They’re bombarding you. We love you. We appreciate you. We thank you. We need you. Don’t leave this page till. Till. Till. Till you donate to our cause. Till you part with a few shekels. Some dollars. A few francs. A peso or two. Tomorrow, they say, is Giving Tuesday. Or giving Wednesday. Or donating Friday. But I am hereby making some changes. A new holiday is a comin’. I have decided to call it TAKING DECEMBER. You folk don’t have to do nuthin’. Just sit back and open a bit wider the slit that leads to your pockets. Yessiree Babaloo. It’s TAKING DECEMBER time. Don’t you worry your pretty little heads about giving. Nope. You don’t have to give. We are going to simply Take. In the dead of night, while you’re dozing off in front of the telly, I shall sneak into your living quarters, slip my greasy palm into your pocket, and take your money. I shall, in the spirit of the holidays, do this for a whole month. I will be covering Christmas, and Chanukah, and Kwanzaa, and Boxing Day. They all occur in December. And they’re all Giving holidays. But I have decided to change all that. The new holiday for the month of December will be, henceforth, Taking December. For those of you who object, you have but to take that red door on your left and esit into the land of eternal damnation. The rest of you… follow me. We, together, shall take what is due us in celebration of those Giving occasions, of which there are many. I have been asked to give the whole of all the other months, including December, and so, in the spirit of reversals, I have decided that for this, the last month of the year, instead of giving, I shall be taking. Rings Around Some Honey / I Shall Take Your Money. Better than a pocket full of Posey, no? And so, while ol’ Santa is clambering down chimneys and stuffing his gut with cookies and milk, I, You, We shall be going to charity seeking establishment and start taking. Of course, there may, here and there, be some objections. But in the words of that great sage named Benjamin, “Who gives a rat’s ass> Why should we not do to them that which they do to us?” Hmmm? As regards my Pet Peeve of the week, which borders upon a topic I have broached before: Why are we always giving and never taking? Let us remedy that on the spot, shall we? Whaddya say? Taking December one and all?
A FAIRY TALE CALLED PRIVACY
What’s that? You think privacy exists? In your dreams pal. And you probably don’t think your phones are sentient either. Hah. You scoff. And so begins the fairy tale. Once upon a time there was a cell phone. It belonged to a pleasant enough chap named Benjamin who had a laissez-faire attitude when it came to his phone. He would use the phone as he pleased. He texted. Made calls. Took pictures. Saved them on his device. He and his phone traveled their own paths, each independent of each other and yet tolerant of each other’s existence. Benjamin would do what he wanted, and the phone could do what it wanted. Until one day Benjamin found himself crossing swords with his phone. This phone of his, he suddenly found out, seemed to have a mind of it’s own. What the fu..? His phone had unexpectedly dinged. A missive of some sort? A text? An email? The news media alerting him to the fact that a politician had done something wrong. His heart started to beat. A politician doing something wrong? The concept was astounding. He woke the device up from its daily slumber and stared at it, stunned. Over time he had collected many images. His wife, now departed. His children. His dog, A woman he had met. Pictures of jewelry he had made over the years. But today, now, these pictures, as if of their own accord, suddenly seemed to leap to the forefront. By itself, not so astounding a feat. What was astounding to Benjamin was that the phone was presenting to him about a dozen or so pictures, all of them of Brinkley, his dog. Brinkley and only Brinkley and nothing else. How was that possible? There were dozens and dozens of pictures for his phone to choose from. How did it know to only choose Brinkley? Did his phone have a sense of self-awareness, as did many of the heroes and heroines of fairy tales, or did the issuers of these phone have the ability to delve into what you thought were your isolated vaults of privacy? You tell me what you think. And I’ll tell you my Pet Peeve of the week. It’s our loss of privacy. We no longer have privacy. “They”, all of them, can get into our devices and snoop around to their hearts content. I use an Android phone, and therefore have to blame Google for this invasion into my private affairs. Are they alone? Methinks not. How else would my phone know to pick only pictures of Brinkley for this day’s showing. Invasion of privacy, or sentience? Which is it? Hmm?
BEHIND THAT MASK OF INTEGRITY
There are those who have it, those who don’t have it, and those who pretend to have it. And then, of course, the question arises as to whether or not anybody truly has it. Let us divide this all into two fictional entities. The first entity we shall call Law-Makers. The second entity we shall call Criminals.
Enter the Law Makers through the door on the right. They are dressed in robes, proclaiming to the world their statuses of exalted high priests of all rights and wrongs. The trumpets sound. The door to the left opens, and the criminals walk in, suits and ties, button down shirts, shiny shoes. The ancient image of them all ragged and tattered, with clothing unwashed, has evanesced into ancient clouds of long lost memories. Etched into the faces of the Law Makers are the noble lines of integrity. Heads held high, shoulders back, seated on make-shift thrones, they glare with disdain at the lowly criminals sitting in their pews, awaiting the decisions of the judges sent to arbitrate and decide who is hiding behind that mask of integrity and who is who he shows himself to the world to be. The Law Makers are scribbling furiously on their tablets. Thou shalt not. Thou mustn’t. We forbid you to. We will not allow you to. While the criminals write in their somewhat frayed notebooks. I will. I must. To the devil with your edicts. We do as we please. The decision rests upon the shoulders of the upholders of justice in an unjust world. The decision is clearly going to be an intellectual one, based on profound thinking. Rich Man, Poor Man / Beggar Man, Thief / Doctor, Lawyer / Indian Chief. The voting ballots are checked for accuracy. Decisions are about to be presented. And now ladies and gentlemen, as is our custom, our decision will be forthcoming. It is… My Pet Peeve of the week is this. Which of the two groups is going to be voted for? Which of he two groups is hiding behind a false mask of integrity and which is showing themselves to honestly be who they are? Hmm?
ORDER THIS… GET THAT.
So here it is. You need need need. A pair of black pants. A yellow shirt. A striped blue and red tie. Off we go, into the wild blue yonder… or, as happenstance would have it, to your trusty handy dandy computer. Time to do some shopping. You like the Titan Shopping Store. They call it TSS. You log in, use a two factor authentication for security, and then place your order. Black pants, yellow shirt, striped tie. Add it all to your cart along with your credit card number and hit “Enter”. Clickety click. Clackety clack. And it’s all systems are a go. Alas, what they don’t tell you is that all the goods you bought today are made in China. You don’t get to know that till you get the package which, and what they also don’t tell you, is that you’ll be lucky if you get the merchandise within three weeks. You sigh, and lean back in your chair, eyes aglaze, and wait, unmoving, for three weeks. Till one day, the doorbell rings, and there’s a package waiting for you from TSS. Their logo is a pair of crossed eyes and a downturned grin, also known as a scowl. You grin, or scowl back and take the box into the kitchen. You get your handy dandy steak knife and slit the thing open. Three packages inside. Oh goodie. You open the first. It’s a tie. Not striped, but you shrug and put it to the side. Package two: Your shirt. Not yellow so much as pink with thin blue stripes. They got the colors ass-backwards. Oh well. Time to take a look at the pants. But they’re not black. They’re checkered. And, well, they’re not pants so much as they’re underpants. Don’t those people know how to speak English? My Pet Peeve you ask? It’s not so much that they gave you the wrong colors. It’s not so much that they gave you underpants instead of pants. The real “irk” here, as you examine the merchandise, is you trying it all on, and looking at yourself in the mirror, pink shirt, blue tie, and checkered boxer under-shorts, and wondering what your date will think of you, all dressed up in your klutzy finery, as you take her to your favorite French restaurant. Ye gads man. Can’t these people get a simple order right? The answer, of course, is no.
THE MOST PROFITABLE BUSINESS IN THE WORLD
Everyone’s doing it. Big, mega personel enterprises. Medium sized businesses. One man operations. And they’re all, to a degree or another, rather successful at what they do, or else why would they all be doing it? And here’s the best part. This enterprise requires no inventory. No stock to replenish. Nothing needs to be sold. No services need to be rendered. And yet the income keeps flowing in. No rent to pay. No phones to maintain. And yet the income keeps flowing in. No ideas to confer. No religion to shower upon the needy. And yet the income keeps flowing in. No schooling required. No degrees of higher learning needed. No lofty ideal need to be reached. And yet the income keeps flowing in. No uniforms needed. No artillery required. No regional or geographical areas asking to be included. Come one, come all. All that is required is a desire, and some chutzpah. (Chutzpah, a Yiddish word meaning nerve, or daring, with a little more flavor). Some salt, some pepper, a bit of spicy paprika, and he or she who is born with an over-sized pair, now has Chutzpah. And with all the available enterprises on this planet, this business over-reaches and out-matches all the others. It reaches into every corner of our planet. No one, I mean no one you or I know, has been untouched by personel who have taken it upon themselves to ply this trade. Even school children do it. Adult of every age do it. The only requirement, and sometimes not even that, is a rudimentary grasp of his or her native language. If you can speak, you can ply your trade. If you can not speak, if you are suddenly struck dumb, you can still ply your trade. There’s only one thing in this world that would prevent you from practicing that which you may yearn to practice. And that would be if everyone on this planet decided to go in that direction. My Pet Peeve of the week you ask. Why oh why is it, I wonder, that I did not decide to take this path instead of taking the various paths I took. And what is this enterprise of which I speak, which many of this world ply, and from which many of the many make quite a bit of money. Simple me lads and lassies. It’s BEGGING. Everybody does it. Gimme please. Donate s’il vous plait. Some funds bitte, to help the needy, and even the not so needy. Money por favor, to stoke the fires of my investments. Money, for our great overseer in the sky. Money please. Money money money. It is, after all, a profitable enterprise. Dontcha think?
LANGUAGE AND PRACTICES OF TODAY
Everything has changed, including language and practices. Re: Politically Correct is now, in my humble opinion (IMHO), Politically Stupid. The don’t want you to say man or woman or girl or boy. So what are you choices? IMHO, men and boys should be referred to as Semen Inserters, or SI’s for short. Tomorrow my SI is going to be bar mitzvahed. Oh, what a good looking Semen Inserter you have. As to women and girls, they are Birthing Persons. The wedding, dear friends, is at this time next year. You are all, of course, invited. My beautiful Birthing Person met a wonderful Semen Inserter. Mothers and Fathers will be Birthers and Inserters for short. I will soon be a Grand Birther and my Semen Inserter mate will be a Grand Inserter. Wait. I’m not done. There’s another new trend out there. For purposes of easier comprehension, I will use our ancient language, which is still alive today. Men will be called men and women will be called women. And so Charlie, a curious lad of about 16 years of age, quite strong and muscular, has never seen a naked girl before. He puts on his sister’s dress and goes to the gym teacher and tells he he suddenly found himself thinking he might be a girl, and so could he please be allowed to join the girls’ swimming team. Of course, not wanting to incur the wrath of the Politically Stupid, Charlie is allowed entrance to the girls’ bathroom, changing room, showers, as well as being allowed to compete again them. Of course, he wins all races. Yayy… Charlie. And he gets to see all the girls naked. Yayy… Charlie. As to Marie… she tells her gym teacher she now identifies as a boy, and gets to see all the boys naked. Not only that, but the boys all love her, and let her win each competition. The moral… pretend to be what you’re not, and you will win all competitions. Some by muscular superiority, some by wiles and ploys and gambits. Me, personally, I shall be neither girl nor boy, neither female not male. Rather, I shall learn how to fly and thus become a bird, and shit on the heads of all the idiots running this planet these days. As to my Pet Peeve for this week, why can’t we all be that which we were born as, rather than try to be something else? What’s wrong with these people?
WHO ARE THEY MAKING CRAZY?
Dog owners, that’s who. This… for those of you who own dogs. The rest of you can commiserate should you feel the inclination come upon you. Let me explain. The day has ended. You’re at peace. Family dinner over. Jokes told. Squabbles ended. It’s telly time. And it begins. Thirty seconds show. Fifteen minutes commercials. Or so it seems. You, you’re family, and of course your dog, each resting comfortably in his, her, your, their, space of choice, are waiting for the show to begin. You’re hardly paying attention to the commercial. Who pays attention to these things anyway? Suddenly Fido, or Daisy, or Milo, or Cooper spring up to the front of the screen. They’re alert. Their tails are wagging. They’re barking at the screen as if all hell was about to break loose. What the…? There’s a strange dog on screen. His name is Coucha. He’s chasing a frisbee. The ad is for Dog Pep Food for Mutts. Coucha catches the frisbee, brings it back, and waits for the next toss. Your dog is waiting too. Off goes the frisbee. Coucha runs, barking his derriere off. Your dog is barking at Coucha’s barking. Your once peaceful abode is filled with yelping dog noise. Fade out. Fade in. A salesman is walking up the steps to the front door of a house. His arms are laden with Dog Pep Food for Mutts. He rings the doorbell, which coincidentally sounds no different than your doorbell. Your dog zooms out of the room and hightails it to the front door. There’s someone there… yippee yipee woof woof. He barks at the door that has no one on the other side. He scratches with his paws. The doorbell rings again in the telly. You’re dog is going absolutely bonkers. He barks at the door. The telly doorbell rings again. He runs back into the room. Nothing, except ringing doorbell noises. Back to the front door. Ring a ding ding. Back to the telly. Back to the front door. The frisbee rises. That strange dog is barking again. Back to the room with the telly. My pet peeve you ask? I’ll tell you. Why is it that no one gives a rat’s ass in hell who they bother and annoy, as long as they can push a product upon you whether you want it or not. Especially if not, because those who want it will buy it with or without ads. Why oh why, I wonder, don’t they have no-charge, ad-free television. Hmmm?
ARE THINGS ALWAYS THE WAY THEY LOOK?
You’re running down the street. They’re after you. The gang… they want to kill you. They have knives out. Guns. They’re screaming with maddened fury. You know you’re about to die. And then there’s the clanging noise. They stop. You turn to look. They begin to fade as sunlight begins to stream through your window, and you realize the dream is over and you are now fully awake as you shut the alarm while wondering what’s real and what is not.
There he is. Dark haired. Green eyed. Tall. Strong. Good teeth. Square jawed. Well dressed. Casual chic. When he looks at you, you see the intelligence in his gaze. You try a rather timid hello. No answer. You try to analyze his age. The best you can guess at is twenty two or twenty three. Or older. Or younger. He’s hard to read. Is he kind? Is he cruel? Is he a leader? A follower? You stare at him for a few moments longer, and then give up, and turn away from the mirror.
He is man. He is walking alone through the forests of Nepal. I am a tiger. I am following him. The fates are promising me a tasty meal. Yet I am being held back. He is walking backwards in order to enable him to see what is behind him. If I approach, he will surely kill me. I change direction and circle around him. I will approach from his rear, from the direction into which he is walking. Rather than attack, I will wait for his nearing. He can not see from his back. Alas, he is now facing front. There will be no surprise today. I run around to his front, only to find he is facing that way again. I leave in search for easier prey. He sees me leave and sits down to rest. He removes the front-facing human mask from the rear of his head.
I pick up the newspaper. Jobs are going down. The economy has shrunk for two straight quarters. The Federal Reserve announces it’s latest interest hike. And yet the unemployment rate is exceedingly low. Are we in a recession, or are we not? Is that man in Nepal wearing a mask in the back of his head to keep the tiger away, or is he simply two faced? Are you your image, or is your image you? When you’re sleeping are you dreaming, or are you dreaming when you’re awake. My Pet Peeve you ask? Here is it. I am never too sure as regards what is real in this world, and what is not. Somebody help. Please!
THE FRUIT FOR THE DAY
The man on the telly steps forth with an air of assurance that can only be achieved after spending at least a day, or maybe more, at an acting school. His level of belief is enhanced by the white smock he wears and the gravitas in his tone. Alongside him is a parade of testifiers dressed as laborers, business people, teachers, students, stuntmen, idiots (there’s a preponderance of those), and recent escapees from your local mental institutions. We’re here to tell you, they say. We’re here to aver, and avow, to confirm, and authenticate, to corroborate, and substantiate, and validate, and even verify. Yessiree ladies and gentlemen. Take this here pill once a day, we call it the Fruit-Usurper, or FU for short, and you will get all the nourishment you would normally get from eating fruit Wal my man, I be feelin’ a whole lot better since I been takin’ FU on a daily basis. Yuppers. I kin run faster, think better, and even last longer in the hay. You don’t believe me, you kin ask my woman. Or my girl friend. Or even my other girl friend. I kin now do them all in one day and then even have time for that cute little nelly goat what lives on my farm. They all love me for takin’ that FU pill. And how about you mister? Yeah. You. What’s your name again? Benjamin, you say? Well Benjamin, I can tell by the way your dress that you’re a city slicker of the highest caliber. What to you think of our FU pill. What? What’s that again? You say you got something better. Can’t you tell by my smock that I’m a doctor and when I say something, that means it is what I say it is. What’s that again. Pet Peeve, you say? You got a Pet Peeve that rises from the fact that you got something better than our Fruit Usurper pill. And what is that, pray tell us Benjamin. Instead of our pill you eat fruit, you say? That’s a little radical, don’t you think? An apple a day is more crunchy, is more flavorful, is more satisfying? And your Pet Peeve of the day is that you think we’re handing you a bunch of bird-poop? Well. Well, I must say. After all, when I think about it… well, I do believe you’re right Mr. Benjamin. My felicitations sir. From today on, I shall make it my Pet Peeve too. I was just hustlin’ you. And I will stop taking those goldurn pills too. Though I must say, the concept of eating fresh fruit instead of taking a pill does seem a bit strange, does it not?
THEY WHO DON’T BELIEVE
1-Who’s that? 2-That? Oh that’s a guy who’s name is Albert Einstein. Very smart man. 1-Interesting looking face. Good eyes too. 2-Yes. You can always tell smart people by their eyes. 1-And who’s that over there? 2-Don’t know for sure. They call him Vinny. 1-Is he smart? 2-Who? Vinny? Nah. I don’t think so. Likes to play sports and date pretty women. 1-But does he do math? Or like science? Or philosophy? 2-Nope. Just sports and women. I hear he likes to read. But I don’t know what. 1-Introduce me.
2-Hey Vinny. C’mere. Want to introduce you. This is Girl. Girl, this is Vinny. 1-How do you do Vinny? 3-How ya doin’ girl? What’s happenin’? 2- Nothin’ much. Gotta go. Bye Vinny.
And when they’re alone. 1-That Vinny is an idiot? 2-How do you know? 1-I can tell by the way he speaks. He’s uncouth. Uncouth people are idiots. 2-What’s couth got to do with anything? 1-You can’t be uncouth and still have a working brain in your head.
4-Overhearing the conversation, #4 steps in. Couth’s got nothing to do with it. Culture, and even education, have nothing to do with how smart you are. 1-You trying to tell me Vinny and Einstein have the same intelligence? 4-No. I’m trying to tell you, you can’t tell just by one or two sentences. He may be as intelligent, less intelligent, of even more intelligent. 2-Why is it, do you think, that people are more ready to believe that if you’re not famous, you’re not as smart as you might be presenting yourself to be. 1-Shrugs. 4-Most people are inclined and ready to believe in your stupidity than in your intelligence. 2-Yeah? Why do you think that is?
Vinny, who is number 3 and who has been lurking on the sidelines, speaks up. The reason most people refuse to believe in your smarts and prefers to believe in your stupidity is because these beliefs tend to elevate their own senses of self-importance and intelligence. If they know that you’re stupid, they must be smart.
And then 1-2-3-4 all disperse, alone and content with their private thoughts. As to me and my Pet Peeve of the week? It is this. Most are never ready to believe how smart you are, while very many others are always ready to believe how stupid you are. Unless, of course, you’re their friend. Then you’re truly quite brilliant, though clearly not as brilliant as them. As to my aforementioned Pet Peeve. I wish oh how I wish there were more Vinny’s in this world. How about you?
THE TOOKITS
Thems wot takes are TAKITS. Thems wot already took, are TOOKITS. English 666 for you devilish types who aspire to be TOOKITS. How many of you read or remember a little tale called Les Misérables by a French chap who went by the name of Victor Hugo? Jean Valjean, the protagonist, steals a loaf of bread to feed his sister’s starving child. For the length and breadth of the story, buy the book. But here is the question. Is thievery on the uptake? Are more of us, you’s, they’s, taking what ain’t ours, yours, thems? If not, then why, when you go into, let’s say, a drug store, more and more items are behind lock and key. An owner’s whims perhaps? Nay nay hunny bunnies. It’s because more and more are taking. So then Benjamin, tell us old chap, why oh why are more and more taking? Whaddya think. Is the driving force akin to that of Jean Valjean’s needs and purposes, the engulfment, through no fault of his own, of poverty. “Poverty” a word known only in its theoretical sense by the Wealthy but known in its depth and breadth by the Needy. So, some of you who are still in a state of wonderment, why oh why Delilah, why oh why is theft on the increase? The answer is: Duh. It’s because two consecutive quarters of negative domestic product (GOP) defines the recession in which we entered in the summer of 2022 and in which we are now in a state thereof, or is it therein? This means the deeper the recession, the greater the crimes. I include the killings in last week’s Tidbits which I attribute to our economic conditions as well as some of our stupid laws, such as the No Money Bail Act of 2021, a bill which restricts the use of money for bail (an example would be the payment of bucks as a condition of pretrial release) in criminal cases. For those of you who might think and these traits have always existed withing the confines of human social order, as well as those of other animals, you are partially correct. Your correctness lies in the propensities. Your incorrectness lies in today’s magnitude and proportions. As to my Pet Peeve of the week, instead of having the Einsteins of the world do the things they do, let us let them run our countries, or at least our country, in order than we may all be better off than we are now.
MAN’S FAVORITE PASTIMES
Two men sitting opposite each other. An ancient game begins. White moves. Pawn to E4. Black: Pawn to E5. White: Pawn to G3. Black: Pawn to D5. Then Knight to H3. It looks like the Sicilian Defense is underway. A few moves later… and Black topples his King. Another one, says the opponent? But the winner refuses. Once a war is won, why give the opponent a second chance? Two children… sitting at a kitchen table. A half a deck of cards in each of their hands. They each grab two cards and turn over the third. One has an eight. The other has a four. The eight wins. They will continue till one of them has all the cards. The name of the game is WAR. Neither side ever wins, but they pursue the game with all the venom they can muster. Then… the telly is on. Mathew Broderick sits fixed in front of his computer. He has penetrated a top secret government facility where large wall screens depict different possible scenarios should one side attack the other. Mathew delves in. He messes with their computers. Oh, it’s such fun. Till it’s not, and the Americans truly believe the Russians are invading. Fact is… in this world in which we live, this possibility seems to be getting closer. The military zeroes in on Mathew, takes him to the central military arena, where Mathew saves the day by asking the machine to play tic-tac-toe, also known as Naughts and Crosses. The name of the film: You guessed it. War Games. The crowds are seated. The finely dressed Matador struts into the field, his cape held at the ready. Gates open, and a mad, snorting bull rushes in and at the Matador who, with his Picadors, end the bull’s life. The crowds cheer. Man is at war with a bull who has no chance in hell to survive the combat. The witch hunts are on. The girls have no chance. The populace is slobbering all over itself in anticipation of a war over a portion of the populace it can’t stand simply because. Nothing else. Just because. We folks do a lot of things simply because. As regards my Pet Peeve of the week? It regards humans’ favorite pastimes. Which are WAR and KILLING. Hey Mike. Whatcha doin’? Nuthin’ much. So listen… wanna declare war and go kill some people? For those of you out there who don’t believe me, look around. Now look a little closer.
VOLUME
The day is done. Chores finished. Caught up on mail. Paid the bills. Even cleared off the table, what with being the compulsive neatnik that I have been known to be. Ah. Time to relax and watch a bit of the telly. I scan the channels. Ye gads man. It’s there. My favorite movie of all time, barring none. THE THIRD MAN is coming on, with Orson Welles. I lean back, click the channel switch and the screen begins its scroll. The credits are just beginning to come on screen. The melody begins playing on the zither. Oh that melody. Da, dada, dada… I adjust the volume. It has to be perfect. Not too loud so that it kills my eardrums. Not so soft that I can’t hear each and every word. I’m waiting for my favorite scene, that part when a light shines into a dark doorway and shows the smirking face of Orson Welles lurking in the shadow, where he’s seen for the first time in this movie since it began. Da, dada, dada… And then it happens. The S.O.B.’s that run the show take their pauses to show you a commercial. A commercial? Now? This time it’s soap. Buy our Mud-In-Your-Face soap, you ignorant telly watching dear dear folks who stash money in our pockets. Buy it now. Buy it buy it buy it. Noooow. But that’s not the bad part. After all, everybody’s got to make a living. The worse part is the volume. They turn it up in order to ensure your eardrums burst. In order to ensure you hear ever precious verbal morsel they bombard you with. If you go deaf, you go deaf. They don’t care, as long as first you hear them. Do you hear them? DO YOU HEAR THEM NOW? The zither is silent. The Mud-In-Your-Face soap dealers are speaking. The new 4000 decibel sounds permeate the room. OH THE SOAP, THE SOAP, THE DOPEY DOPEY SOAP… You grab the controller and push and push till the volume abates as the idiotic commercial ends. The movie comes back on, now barely audible. Da dada dada… You grab that controller again and push the volume up, up, till, Da dada dada… and you lean back again, and smile, completely forgetting about the commercial. There’s Orson, running down the cobblestoned street, followed by Joseph Cotton, turning the street corner and… disappearing into thin air. Da dada dada… And the volume goes up again. And your eardrums are again beginning to kill. As to my favorite Pet Peeve. It’s not so much that I mind the commercial. It’s that I can’t stand you out there controlling the volume as if to control my mind. It’s like looking for flowers and ending up plucking weeds. Plucking weeds you say? Well pluck you. And you. And you. Pluck all of you in fact.
AND THEN THE MACHINE ANSWERS
You’ve got to make the call. You need them. Doctor? Lawyer? Dentist? Does a secretary answer? Does anyone out there remember the good old days when secretaries answered the phone? Not today me lads and lassies. Even if they’re doing nothing, a task at which most excel, when the phone rings, she’s doing her nails. He’s checking the market on his phone. The phone rings. And rings. And the machine picks up. Hello. This is the doctor’s office. No one is available to answer just now. Please hold for the next available representative. In the meantime, if you are calling from a doctor’s office, press one. If you are a patient, press two. If you want to speak with office personnel, press three. If you want to speak to one of our idiot specialists, just hold on and hope for the best. If you have pain in your left arm, please go to www.schmucks.com and follow the instructions… if you can. If you can’t, hang up and call us later. Hello. This is the Dentist’s office. Hello. This is the carpenter’s office. This is the Hair Salon. This is the Proctologist. We are not available. But please follow the instruction and we will, as will all the others, ram it up your collective asses. Hello. This is… Hello. This is… Remember the good old days when a human answered the phone? Remember the good old days when humans still roamed the earth? No switchboard. An operator picked up. May I help you please? Would you like me to dial the number for you? Would you like to speak to Mr. John, or Mrs. Jane, or Miss Betsy? Your tummy hurts you say. No problem. Doctor Nicety will be there within the hour. No no. We don’t mind. We are here to help. Ah, yesteryear. You have some questions? Please hold. Our nurse will be on the phone to help you in two minutes. As to these years… You have some questions? Send your queries via email, or via our website, or use our new remote Telepathic Nodule Telemetry system. TNT for short. No no. Heh heh. It’s not explosive. It’s just our new advanced non-human communications system. It’s all the rage you know. Pet Peeve you say? You have a Pet Peeve? Oh do pray tell let us know what it is. Oh. You want to revert back to the days when humans were human. Surely you jest good sir. Humans being human, you say?? Hah! That’s a good one sir.
BUY OUR PILLS
How many different pills are there out there. A million? A trillion? Maybe even a quadrillion? Step right up folks. Buy this pill. Low on iron. Buy this one, and you won’t have to be bothered to eat steaks anymore. Low on energy? Buy this one. It will replace the need to eat fruits. This one here… no need to munch on veggies. This one. Need water? Fuggedaboudit. Here’s a pill just for you, though if you have no water you might have a wee bit of trouble swallowing said pill. Too cold for you out there. Got a pill made just for you. Failing eyesight? Here. An eyesight pill. No more need for carrots. Fingernails constantly breaking. A jello pill will remove your need to eat jello. Low on sugar are you today? Here ya go. Take this pill and you won’t have to each candy anymore. Wait. We got a special running today. Getting tired of taking all those pills? Hoo-hah! Boy do we have the remedy. Here ya go ladies and gennulmen. A new fangled pill just for you. Take this pill, and you won’t have to take any other pills any longer. We call it the IUD pill. Internal Usage Destroyer. Take one, and you will no longer feel yourself swelling up from having had too much pleasure. Pleasure eating that is. Why? What did you think I meant here? Hmmm? But here’s the thing of it. Our leaders, it has been hinted at, are going to be putting an embargo on pill usage till they can establish an economic equilibrium. What that means is that as long as people are getting used to those pills, they want to charge more. But what happens if you lose your pills?? My Pet Peeve, you ask? Oh how oh how does one avoid these ridiculous charges. Oh how oh how does one avoid this reliance we have been induced to have on pills? I’ll tell you how. Don’t take those pills you need to elevate your iron levels. Eat meat. Tastes better too. Your eyesight. Have a carrot or two. Low sugar? Eat a piece of candy. Thirsty? Drink a bloody glass of water. And my favorite of them all… I’m sure you’ve all heard of it. Low on energy? Don’t take the stupid fruit pill. Instead, have a peach. Or a piece of watermelon. Or a plum. And tell the pill makers of the world to shove those pills up their asses. All of you who agree, say amen. Or text me amen. Or email me the word: Amen. Ayyyy ayyyy ayyyy… Ay-men!
TRANSPARENCIES
It's the heights of an epidemic. Everybody’s wearing a mask. Black masks, blue masks, red masks and more. But, but but but, no one is wearing transparent masks. As to food shop time. No more plastic bags. Only paper, at a slight cost, or bring your own doo-dad bags. But here's the thing of it. The technology is there, waiting to be used. Israel has developed a bio-degradable plastic. Use it as a plastic bag at the supermarket, then throw it in the garbage, and it will decompose over a short period of time. So why don't we use them? Money honey. There's more mazuma in cutting down a tree, killing a forest, and selling the tree's by product as a paper bags than there is in using plastic bags which can be self-decomposing and are extremely cheap. As to the opaque masks, it's not so much that they protect against diseases as it is that they afford thieves the ability to travel about in broad daylight, masked and unrecognizable, while doing the thieving things thieves do while doing them totally incognito. They in charge, being the do good-er types they all are, have given them the tools the thieves need with which to better ply their trades. As to whether or not those opaque masks we all buy really do the job for which they were intended is another question entirely. Of course, the question arises, is there such a thing as a transparent mask? What material could we use? Is there anything out there? Here's a copy and paste I pass on to you. Researchers at Switzerland's Federal Institute of Technology, Lausanne, and the Swiss materials science center Empa, are developing completely transparent surgical masks. They could be on the market as soon as early 2021. Except uh-oh, its past the first half of 2022 and we do not yet have the masks. So, to sum up, there are, in all probability, transparent masks out there which we can't get. And there are also, in all probability, degradable plastic bags out there, which we also can't get. As regards my Pet Peeve of the week, why are there not also bio-degradable politicians out there which we, seemingly, also can't get. Sheesh. What's going on in this world of ours?
WHAT IS A SECRET?
I may or may not have done this before. If I did, I give it to you again. If I did not, I just give it to you. Let us now sally forth. Some things in life are defined by what they are, and some are defined by what they are not. Secrets belong to the latter part. I shall now delve. Psst.. Hey, Mary. Want to hear a secret? Joanie is seeing Suzie’s husband on the sly. All right, all you members of the Federal Office Of Secret Info, FOOSI for short. We here at FOOSI guard our government’s nuclear information away from prying eyes. Tip Top Secret and all that stuff. So don’t share this info. Hey, Tommy. I got the answers to next week’s test. They were in Ms. Salwitz’s desk. She don’t know I copied them. Shh. Don’t tell no one. Spit three times and bite your tongue and swear you won’t tell a soul. It’s a secret. Hey Jonathon. Don’t buy your car over at We Are Thieving Car dealers. They charge ten grand over MSRP but they keep it all a secret so that nobody knows about it. You want the secret to the Chocolate Mish Mash cookie they make in Belgium. Here it is my friend. Got it from a friend who knows a friend who has another friend. Sh sh. Not a word. It’s a secret. Whiskey, you say? You want to make your own? Got your own still and all that? Okay. It’s your lucky day. I know how they do it. Got the recipe from my Uncle Jed who got it from a cow who once knew a sheep who knew this sly old fox. All top secret stuff hidden deep in the wooded mountains in Tennessee. Psst. Hey, mister. Want to buy some secrets cheap? You’ll be the only one in the world who will know them. No one else. Not another living soul. I swear it as sure as my name is Krinklepuss. That’s Irwin Krinklepuss to most. But just plain Krinklepuss for you, mi amigo. So now Benjamin. Enough of this stuff. You said that secrets are defined by what they are not. So tell us, what is a secret not. Well folks, here’s what a secret is not. If more than one person knows it, it’s not a secret. And that is what a secret is. As to my Pet Peeve of the week, no one ever told me a secret, for once they told it to me, it was no longer a secret. And so voila. Get it?
WHAT IS A PROMISE?
Okay. Raise your right hand and promise you’ll never ever sneak into my bedroom unannounced again. No more stealing anymore, okay? Promise? Daddy daddy. Can we go to the zoo this weekend. Yes? Wheee. Promise daddy? Do you promise? Honey. How about a little moofkie poofkie tonight? Okay? Promise? I’ll let you off on that speeding ticket sir, if you promise never to speed in this city again. Okay? Do we have a deal? Yes? Promise? Of course our company would never cheat you if you buy this car from us. As sure as our name is Superyou. We promise. Our hands to Tanuki, god of trickery and leader of deceptions. You want the recipe to my apple pie? Here it is, exactly the way my mother made it. I promise. Need some money. I’ll send you out a check tonight tonight. I promise. Do you take this man, do you take this woman, do you take this parent, do you take this teacher…? I do, I do, I will, I promise I promise yes I do I do. Where do you think promises are made? Well my good man, my good lady, as everyone knows, promises are made in heaven. Yes they are indeed. Do you promise to obey the laws of our land if we let you cross our borders? I promise. Do you promise to wear these skirts and pants according to the sexual gifts with which you were endowed at birth? Oh yes. Of course. I will and do and must and shall. I promise. Do you promise you will not pretend to be a member of the opposite sex in order to invade their private premises in order to see them naked? Oh yes. Of course. I promise. And so it goes in life. Whichever corner you turn, there’s always someone out there making promises. Which, of course, brings up my Pet Peeve of the week. Do, pray tell, someone, please, ‘splain to me what a promise is. Ah Benjamin. I will tell you. A promise is a lie all dressed up to look like the truth. And now we all know.
WHAT TO DO WHEN A COP SEES YOU PEE?
You’re driving along the highway, sipping on your drink of choice, humming Zippety Doo Dah while watching the road with your eyes and watching Uncle Remus with your mind. You have, as I suspect most people have, a propensity to reminisce. And then, suddenly, Kabaamm! Mother nature, bitch that she can sometimes be, presses relentlessly with both hand upon your bladder. Uh-oh. You gotta go. There’s a warehouse down the road. Good. You pull in and run for the door to ask for the key to the terlet. Ol’ Mother Nature, slams a bag of manure in your eyes. The place is closed. Out of business. Gone bye bye due to world problems, poor handling, financial woes. Oh what to do what to do? An aha moment pervades. Go to the side of the building and piss against the wall, and thank the powers that be that for this dilemma, at least you were born a male. You zip down, pull the devil out from his nest, arch back, and let loose with a stream that would normally be the envy of every fire hydrant in the city. And then comes that abhorrent sound. That wailing, whining siren leading the flashing red twirling lights. And a police car pulls up behind you. What’s the penalty for pissing against a wall of a shuttered building? You sigh and zip up. You were finished anyway. You search the nook and crannies of your brain to find that important bit of useless information that’s tucked away in there for cases of emergencies. For cases of emergencies. For cases… Cop walks over to you. What you doin’ there pal? As if he didn’t know. How about I’m pissing against this wall officer? Will that do? But instead you tug at that bit of information and say: I’m sorry officer. It was a medical emergency. And then the cop checks your license, walks around your car, and says okay, on your way buddy. No ticket. No nothing. You see what it is folks, cops don’t give out tickets to folks who act to avoid medical emergencies. It’s the rule. As to my Pet Peeve of the week? I’m aging here, and I only found this out about one week or so ago. What took the world so long to give me this information? Next time, instead of trying to hoodwink me, tell me something that might help me. Okay?
RECEIPTS AT A GAS STATION
I will not mention the name. Or maybe I will. Please keep in mind that this is only an extrapolation on my part. That said, I shall proceed, and perhaps even go forward. Ready?
I’m driving along when, looking down at the gas gauge, I see I need gas. I look around and see a 7/11 store. It has gas pumps. And, it is quite conveniently located. I pull in, slip my credit card into the slot, and pump to full. I do my best to ignore the fact that a half a tank of regular gas costs me forty smackeroos. I push the button that tells me to push for a receipt. Nothing happens. No receipt. Nada. Riens. Zippo. So I go inside and ask for a receipt for pump number 5, and while I’m at it, I get a cup of coffee and go on my way. And a wee bit of time passes, and I find myself on that same road, again needing gas. I drive into 7/11 again, avoid pump number 5 and pull into pump number 6. Another forty bucks down the tubes. I push the button. No receipt. I push push push again. Zero. I curse the bloody pump and pop back inside again and ask for a receipt for the gas. The machine does its thing and the cashier hands me the receipt. As a kicker, I get a piece of chocolate before going my way. And another wee bit of time passes. And the same scenario presents itself. I pull in, and this time, to ensure I get a good pump, I pull into number 1. Surely number 1 will work. But, but but but, it does not. Forty dollars later, pushing the button till my finger goes numb, I pop into the story and, containing by new growing fury, semi-politely state the pump receipt printing mechanism is not working, and may I please have a receipt. This time, being somewhat pissed over the top, I buy nothing and leave. I get in the car, start the engine, and slowly head for the sunset. And then it hits me. A ton of bricks comes crashing down upon my skull. Of course they’re disabling the receipt printing mechanism on the pump. How else to ensure getting me into the store and, perhaps, inducing me with their display to buy something, anything, just spend more money. My Pet Peeve of the week you ask? Stop trying to trick me, oh you dirty filthy scoundrels that you are.
THE LYING LABELS OF HERE AND NOW
I will speak of two companies which, though different one from the other, are both, nevertheless, interrelated. The first I shall call the Sensor Interoperative Allied Melange (SHAM for short) which manufactures liquid sweeteners, and the second I shall call the Bogus Canning Company (BOGUS for short) which specializes in canning the liquid sweetener sold by Sham. In front of the Bogus can is their label which states, in no uncertain terms, that absolutely no chemicals have been added. And so, in all your innocence, you buy the Sham Liquid sweetener to add to your coffee, your cake mix, your strawberries, as well as for dipping your finger in for later licking as your penchant for sugary flavors increases. You ten year old daughter, who enjoys reading everything from the contents of the Wall Street Journal to the ingredients on prepackaged food stuffs, turns the can containing liquid SHAM around and starts to read. There’s Benzene, Dioxins, PCB, Perchlorate, Polyfluoroalkyl, Radionuclides, and more. How is that possible, she queries while pointing triumphantly to the back label. You call your friend who knows a thing or two about fraud. She tells you it’s quite simple. The back label which lists all the ingredients is produced by the Sensor Interoperative Allied Melange company and lists, according to law, all the ingredients included in their sweetener. The label in front however, is printed by the Bogus Canning Company and states, quite honestly, that they, the Bogus Canning Company, has added no chemicals to the enclosed mixture. They play with the language, and use it with intent to mislead, to defraud, to swindle and dupe and hoodwink. So… my advice of the day my friends, try, if you are able, to figure out if the back labels and the front labels of the items you’ve just bought were printed by the same company. I’ll give you an example. There’s a bottle out there (no names as I don’t want legal problems) that has, as an example, an image of an oak leaf in front. Underneath the leaf is a statement that says Real, Not Fake. On the rear label is a series of ingredients that will give you a heart attack once you read them. The front implication is that the Oak Syrup is made from real Oak Leaf. Which it is, along with who knows what other crap. I stopped halfway through this to run to my refrigerator to verify my suspicions. Obviously, what I found was not Oak Leaf Syrup. But I’ll tell you what. Go to your fridge, and look about, and you will find something too, as sure as my name is Benjamin. As regards my Pet Peeve of the week, my questions is WHY? Just plain WHY is it that every time I look for deceptions in life, I find there are more of them than there are gnats on a hot summery day? WHY?
CHICKIE-RUNS OF TODAY
I bring you all, or at least those with long memories, to the past. James Dean is in the forefront here. How many of you remember him? One of the greatest of the great, in my humble opinion. And if you do, do you also remember Rebel Without a Cause? James Dean, Natalie Wood, Sal Mineo, et al. He’s new in town. Going to a new school. Meets a gang of kids. One of them, his name is Buzz, challenges him to a chickie-run with their cars at the edge of a cliff. First one to jump out of the car before it goes off the cliff is a chicken. Natalie Wood does her one, two, three, go shtick, and they’re off. Only thing here is that Buzz gets his sleeve caught in the door handle, can’t get out of the car, and hurtles off the cliff to his death. Sad moment in film. Buzz dared when he shouldn’t have. Problem today is… I encounter the same situation on a daily basis and I hate it. I’m driving along all peaceful-like. It’s a nice sunny day. I’m whistling Zippee dee doo dah in my head. Remember Uncle Remus? The sun out out. The sky is cloudless. The birds are singing. But… but but but… not only are they singing… they’re also swooping. Darting through the air. Up, down, left, right. And then again, while I’m churning forward doing forty in a thirty mph speed zone, still zippee dee doo dah-ing in my head when suddenly one of those little avian daredevils takes it into his head to do a chickie-run with my car. Here he comes. Nyaaaahhhh… and he swoops down. And instead of being six to ten feet or more in the air, he’s suddenly three inches off the ground and shooting like a bullet in via the left front of my car’s grill. Before I have a chance to slam on the brakes, he’s coming out the right side, safe. The little son of a female chick turns for a second, opens his beak to grin at me, give me a feather up with his wing-tip and flies off into the sunrise. He won, this time. But he scared me. My Pet Peeve for the week? What if he missed? What if, instead of coming out the other side, I felt a sight thud and saw feathers flying in front of my vehicle? You know what really bothers me? Too many bird brains out there playing chickie these days. Somebody make them stop. Please. class="western" align="left">
THE COLOR OF FARTS
I am faced with a dilemma that has troubled me over time. I fervently hope one or more of you can help me. When I go into New York City, I arrive at Penn Station. Same station when going home. All my senses are then assaulted. Sight. Hearing. Smell. Touch. Taste. The plaza into which I descend is filled shoulder to shoulder with humanity. They jostle and move and taste all the goodies available from the local vendors. I can smell the hot dogs being eaten by the guy in front of me. I can smell the pizza being eaten by the lady near my side. That one, over there, with the long black hair is inundating me with the aroma of her perfume. That kid is smothering me with, I can almost taste it, the smell of that shish kebob he’s gulping down as tears bits of meat off of that skewer. I don’t have to turn around to know someone behind me is slurping down huge swallows of chocolate ice cream. I think I’m in yummy land. Till suddenly there wafts across airborne streams foul aromas emanating from humanity’s nether regions. Someone let loose of a fart so foul as to have the ability to end life with one wiff. Ye gads man. How is that possible? Oh, to have one wish. Foul aromas emanating from those unmentionable parts, should be tinted with color. I choose pink. Imagine, if you will, a pink stream suddenly floating out from the behind portion of his or her pants. It would be a forewarning of smells to come. Uh-oh. Turn left. Pink stream in the short distance, just ahead. Which brings me to my dilemma coupled with my Pet Peeve of the week. My pet peeve for this week? Why can’t farts be tinted pink as an omen of an aromatic attack. My dilemma for the week? If farts were all tinted pink, what color would the air be in Penn Station on any given day. Clear? Or pink? Help me, those of you out there. Tell me what you think. Hurry. I’m about to descend into Penn Station, and to be forewarned is to be fore-odor free.
7:31PM
Remember the good old day. You turned on the telly and there was Ed Sullivan, or Dinah Shore, and all the others. You watched for a bit, and then a commercial came on. Time to get to the fridge and grab an apple. But just barely. You had what seemed like only a few seconds before the show started again. And on top of all that, it was free. Holy Moly. Remember that expression? Uttered by Billy Batson in moments of surprise. He was also known as Captain Marvel. And then time passed, and the age of suing each other to the hilt came into being, and Superman sued Captain Marvel for copyright infringement, and Billy Batson and his allies were history. And then we all progressed, as we are wont to do. And cable television came into existence, and free T.V, went by way of the dinosaurs. We shrugged our shoulder as we all do when the inevitable cascades upon us. And we paid our monthly cable bills. They promised us hundreds of extra channels, most of which are meaningless. You want the good stuff, pay extra. You want the really really good stuff. Pay even more extra again. And then Lucifer looked upon us, and became upset with our contentedness over the new usurious status quo. He saw us running to the fridge for that apple. It bothered him that we might have too much viewing time. So the powers that be, miserable little scallywags that they are, decided to lengthen commercial time and shorten viewing time. If we don’t like it, we can lump it. So a couple of days ago, not having that much to do, what with Tidbits and Pet Peeves having been done for the week, and a free interim period weighing pleasurably on my shoulders, I decided to time the time it took for a commercial, and the time they gave me for viewing pleasure. I can not say that this applies to all shows and instances. I can only aver that it applied this one time to me. Show stopped and commercial began at 7:31pm. Commercial stopped and show began at 7:37. Commercial time: 6 minutes. Show stopped and commercial began at 7:41. Show time: 4 minutes. Mommieeee. Where is the world going? My Pet Peeve of the week… bloody ever lengthening commercials.
THAT WHICH KILLS