And now Ladies and Gentlemen ... My Pet Peeve of the week: 1/27/2021:
THE AGE OF ROBOTICS
We live in a new world where, while they give us great new stuff, they often do not always complete their thinking. In the meantime, sell ‘em what we got till we get somethin’ better. For today, I shall view the robot vacuuming tool. It seems great. It vacuums your floors. When done it, it puts itself back in place and recharges itself. It’s easy to empty. It turns corners. Surely it changes the baby’s diapers. Maybe it cooks dinner. Does the laundry. Mows the lawn. Takes out the garbage. Answers the phone. Acts as an intruder warning system. Looks to see who’s at the front door. Flushes your toilet. Wipes your nether areas. Does the dishes. Barbecues hot dogs. Turns on the telly. Turns off the telly. Turns on the lights. Turns off the lights. Gives you aspirin when you have a headache. Runs your bath. Fills your car with gas. Talks to you when you’re feeling lonely. It does everything. Everything, you hear. But wait. Wait. What’s that? It does not do everything? And what pray tell does it not do? The most essential, you say? Without this feature it’s not nearly as good as they claim. Okay okay. I give up. Tell me. What does it not do that it should do. Upstairs? You have to carry it up to do the upstairs? It doesn’t do steps either. Nor sunken living rooms without manual placement. You have to do those yourselves. And if you don’t want to carry it upstairs, you then have to buy two? Three if you have a finished basement? Oh yes. Please. Hurry. Sent me a set. Three if you please. Make that four, in case one breaks down. Better make that five. No. Six. They seem so good. I could never do without one. I could never manage with an old fashioned vacuum cleaner that works all over the place. Never. You hear?
STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK'S PET PEEVE
PAST PET PEEVES
YOU LOOK GOOD FOR YOUR AGE
In all probability this will only apply to those within a ten year or so reach of my age. I am 82 years old, traipsing along in my 83rd year of life, astounded by the passing of time and more than willing to assassinate the idiot who invented the mirror. Or maybe not. My moods define my desires. Still, the older I get the more I realize how little I know. So here’s the scenario. I meet some people. We talk. I reveal my age. The exclamations are over the top. Oh my. You look so good for your age. You don’t look a day over 40. My uncle Oscar looked twice your age and died at half your age. Tell us your secret. How do you do it? You could teach Methuselah, grandfather to Noah, a thing or two, let me tell you. Though I must say, he did die at 969 years of age. And that ain’t half bad assuming you even want to live that long. See that person over there? Yes. That one. The old man hobbling along with his cane, bent over with age, unable to raise his head up straight enough to be able to clearly view the horizon. I know him. We call him the crooked man who lives down the block. You know how old he is? 76 and not a day older. They all shake their semi-lying heads in wonderment. They don’t understand how I do it. You look so young. You look so vibrant. Tell us your secret. Tell us how you do it. And so I say it’s simple. It’s all about lollipops. Hunh? Lollipops? How to you figure lollipops? I explain. Age, I tell them with the weariness that is almost always carried on the shoulders of octogenarians, is like lollipops. It simply comes in different flavors.
# 2 +
You ever lose anything? Didn’t know where you placed it? Did you put it in a secret place where no one who didn’t know what or where it was could find it? Not if they tried for a million years. I put mine in a manila envelope. I labeled it with a large red # 2 +. Put it someplace where no one could find it but me. Problem was, I forgot where I put it. That ever happen to you? I looked in all the closets. Nope. Nothing there. I tried the dresser and the triple dresser. Nada. Linen storage maybe? Surely that would be a good place. Right? Wrong. Among the towels? Good luck Charlie Brown. Maybe the washing machine. Why not? Plato, my white cat, who was a bit of a whore when she was alive and had more than one litter in that machine, maybe she guided me from her side of existence to hide that precious envelope there. Not to be. Plato was probably too busy frolicking around in cat heaven. Ah. Got it. The hamper. Alas, nay. Then where? Is it possible that I hid it so well I would never again find it. Disaster loomed ominously in the air. The medicine cabinet? Nope. The kitchen utensil draw? Nope. How could it be so utterly gone? It was stuffed thick with papers. But wait. Wait. I think I’ve got it. I suddenly remembered. My mother used to say to me, “Yoish! Benny! Look with your head, not with your eyes.” Which I did. I have a room I call my Typing Room. Some friends call it the Situation Room. It’s filled with books, and papers, and yup, you got it, envelopes, some of them manila. I walk in. I inhale the friendly aroma of dead trees processed into paper products. I look on the first shelf of the first bookcase I see. And there it is, standing tall on its bottom edge, hidden in plain sight, an envelope with a # 2 + in dead center. I sigh with relief, as would you were you in my shoes. For inside the envelope are all, well, maybe not all, but most, or at least many, make that some of my Pet Peeves for 2021, starting, of course, with #2. The Pet Peeve you are reading now is #1. And may 2021 bring us less surprises than the years are usually wont to do, unless of course they’re good ones. Happy New Year y’all.
LET US PLAY A GAME CALLED WHAT IF
What if we all pretended to know but didn’t? What if the greenhouse gases were warming the planet? What if the warming of the planet also, as a tangential side effect, also warmed the seas? What if the warming of the seas were also killing our coral reefs? What if the warming of the coral reefs were killing off some of the species that relied on the coral for life? I know I know. Most of you know all about these what ifs. But I got more. What if the governments knew things they didn’t want to tell us? What if one of the things they didn’t want to tell us concerned some of the side-effects of the warming of the planet and the seas and the coral reefs and the species that rely on the coral for their existence? What if the warming of the planet that was killing off all this stuff, was also creating new stuff? What if the warming of the planet brought back extinct species? What if the warming of the planet brought us the new species? What if the warming of the planet enabled life to exist where it had never existed before? What if the warming of the planet brought into existence a life form which, much like us, demanded dominance over all other life forms? What if we called that life form, in keeping with our political propensity for obscurity, Victorious Incidences Rejecting Upper Species? What if, in keeping with our insane desire to use less words and more initials and even more lack of clarity, we decided to use only the first letters of this new entity we call Victorious Incidences Rejecting Upper Species and instead call it V.I.R.U.S. Then what?
AXE OR AX
In no way on this earth am I particular about the way anyone speaks a language. For today I will use English. You’re in class. The teacher is a stern type. Never smiles. Never laughs. Never lets on that there may be even a hint of humor in his soul. As the god of students flies overhead, invisible to most but the keenest eye, El Teacher begins. He has a question. Is it spelled axe or ax, he says. Everybody raises their hands. It’s ax, say one. It’s axe, says the other. It’s both says the third. The teacher allows a slight hint of a smile etch the corners of his lips. You are all correct, he says. Then he says, can anyone out there give me a few sentences with the word axe or ax in them? Timothy raises his hand. The teacher give him the go ahead nod. Timothy clears his throat and begins rattling off his examples. Kin I borrow yer axe so’s I kin chop down that tree. Didn’t do the job right, so they gave me the axe. I didn’t like my grade and now I have a axe to grind. Why do they call a guitar an ax? You call it a tomahawk, I call it an axe. She’s no soft old lady, she’s a battle-ax. You want me to axe that log to pieces? The teacher is by now grinning ear to ear at Timothy’s prowess. He has a student here who he has taught well and who has learned well. And then the smile fades when the teacher asks Timothy if he has anything else to add or any questions. Timothy says, amid the cheers of friends, nope, I got nuthin’ else to add or to aks you. And the teacher’s face falls. So what do you guys think? Axe? Or ax? Or perhaps even aks?
A BUCKET PLEASE
I’m not going to tell you the name of the company. I absolutely will not hint at the fact that its name exactly mimics the name of a cartoon sailor man who smokes a corn cob pipe, squints with one eye, eats spinach which, when he does, makes him very strong, to the point in fact that he is able to decimate a neighborhood guy five times his size. I will not tell you the name of the company, which I strongly suspect, is a franchise. And why do I think this? When I visit their on-the-road establishments, their food, breaded, spiced and fried, is delicious. When I visit one of their local establishments their food is so thickly breaded that it makes me wonder how much, if any, meat is under all that breading. You want a hint. Some things in life can be clarified by telling you what they are not. Do you know that place from Kentucky that has a Colonel named Sanders as it’s image and sells fried meat in a bucket with sides of corn and potatoes and other what nots? Yeah. Well. My problem is not with him. There are places in almost every state in the union that has an establishment that sells some form of breaded fried food as their specialty. I’ve had the Sanders variety, and I like it. But this one with the name of that sailor man, that one I love. Or I thought I loved it. Till I bought some at a place that bears its name and logo, but breads its meat so thick that one wonders if one is getting any meat at all. I can’t tell you the name of the establishment. It’s a deep dark secret. But it is this very single part of the conglomerate that leads me to believe it’s a franchise, with every owner running things the way he sees fit for his purposes, as well as his purses. They should call it “Sailor’s Delight with Spicy Fried Bread Morsels” to soothe your gastronomical urges. It won’t be a Crumby meal so much as it will be a Crummy meal. Of course, this is only my humbling crumbling opinion, so only take it with a grain of salt. Add a little pepper for flavor. And have some apple pie as backup. Just in case.
CHARITY
Some time ago … at my age many if not most things are some time ago ... so, some time ago I either read or saw on the telly that 10% of charitable donations go to charities while the other 90% is allocated for salaries and other institutional necessities. I believe this is true due to the fact that I believe corruption runs rampant in this world of ours. I have two phones at home … leftovers from when my kids lived with us. Both phones have answering machines. Both phones have the ringers off. Telemarketers have forced me to remove myself, as much as possible, from tele-communicative social interaction. The government says they will end this problem. I say bah, bullshit. It will never end as long as the possibility of payoffs exist. I do not block my emails. Yesterday there was a missive. Hi Benjamin. This is Joe. I’m so happy to make your aquaintance. I’m with this or that organization. We were wondering if you would be kind enough to gift us … blah blah blah. I deleted it. More emails come in. Hear ye hear ye. It’s Giving Monday. It’s receiving Tuesday. It’s gimme gimme gimme Wednesday. It’s donate Thursday. It’s charity Friday. I have decided to create a new one, one I know the world desperately wants and needs. I shall call it Getting Saturday where, instead of giving, I will be getting. What a novel thought. As a bonus, I will not be splitting up the donations to moi. No 10% for charity and 90% for the organization. Nay nay. Getting Saturday will distribute all monies to me and me alone. No share-sies here. And so now a question arises. How many of you out there, by a show of hands, or by any other means of communications, would like to be part of my newly devised charity organization entitled Getting Saturday? When and if it one day comes successfully into existence, we will then get in touch with all those who have gotten in touch with us and we will tell them, one and all, we want to Get Some. Whaddya think? Hmmm?
THE APPEASEMENT OF BEING RIGHT
Here’s the thing of it. Your whole life you’ve bought the sazzamafrazz with the blue label that said Wholesome Sazzamafrazz. And then, suddenly, while all the while keep the deceptively blue label on the product, they changed to labeling to Totally Unwholesome Sazzamafrazz. You don’t notice it it till you get home. You’re irate. You call the Sazzamafrazz headquarters and ask for the complaint department. You get a lady who’s accent is so thick you can barely understand what she’s saying. She listens sympathetically to your complaint. She sighs a loud, audible sigh of empathy. You know what, she says. You are right. I don’t know why they do that. And you take leave of her, unsatisfied but appeased. Even the Sazzamafrazz staff thinks you’re right. What a bunch of morons. And the next day you go shopping again. You forgot to buy a Glimchyk. There it is on the shelf. Glimchik. You don’t notice this one is spelled with an “i” instead of a “y”. You don’t notice till you open the product and there, instead of an alcohol and vinegar free skin rub, you have one laden with alcohol and vinegar. You look at the label again. There is fine print. We call this one Glimchik instead of Glimchyk because Glimchick has alcohol and vinegar. You are irate beyond all measure. You call the company. You have to dial three times because your angry trembling fingers keep missing their mark. This time you get a gentleman. You tell him your story. You people changed the label in such a fashion as to deceive. You’re dishonest. It’s not right. The agent listens patiently and then asks if you can wait a moment. He wants to check on the situation. You agree, and while you’re cooling off, he gets back to you. He apologizes profusely. He tells you you’re right. You’re absolutely right. It is, you understand, out of his hands. And again you hang up, again somewhat appeased. But here’s the thing of it. You begin to wonder. Every time you call to make a complaint, they sympathize, they empathize, and they tell you you’re right. Is it possible that this is corporate training. A professorial looking type stands in front of the new recruits. You only have one thing to remember, he tells the new-to-be employees. If a customer complains, right or wrong, you tell him he or she is right, whether he or she is right or not. This calms them down and they go away satisfied that even the company employees agree with them. It works every time. So what do you think folks? Is this scenario a possibility? Think about it the next time you complain and the company customer service person tells you you’re right.
CREATURES OF THIS EARTH
Let’s start with this. I am an animal lover. All animals. I watch them all the time on the telly. Solitary tigers stalking their prey. Backward and forward and hovering in place Hummingbirds. Battalions of army ants marching forth ready to decimate all who lie in the path. Gazelles leaping through the air with the grace that would be the envy of all ballerinas. Great white sharks and tiny sea horses. Predators and prey, each and every one, grabbing the next meal, if they can catch it, by the throat and then eating its bloody carcass. What’s not to admire? Are we any different? We raise to kill and eat. We hunt to kill and eat. But unlike most of the others, we also hunt for the fun of it. And if one of them out there get us while we’re roaming about, oblivious to their presences, we hold no rancor in our last breaths as we hear their breathings on our necks. Even the germs do not generate our hatred. They give us measles, and we become immune. We catch a cold, I presume we’re immune for that year. Mosquitoes, potentially dangerous and annoying, are somewhat tolerated. Toads are cute. Crocodiles are fascinating, but Dundee could put them to pasture with a simple knife deftly placed in its skull. Microbes? I suspect we couldn’t live without them. I know I know. You probably all know where I’m going here. Of all the living things I see or know of--and I admire them one an all—there is one I am unable to abide. Perhaps I’m not being fair. Perhaps it, as well as the others, has as much a right to exist as do I, or even you, or you, or you. You, I’m not so sure of. But that’s another story. My pet peeve this week is my unalterable hatred for that foul, despicable entity called COVID19. It’s so much like us. No wonder we dislike it so. It appears to like to kill just for the joy of killing. Maybe I’m being unfair. After all, it emulates us while being better at it than we are. What’s not to hate? What do you all think? Agree? Disagree?
Post Office Boxes
Seems innocuous enough. Yes? No? We get those for many reasons. Business in transition and you want your mail to temporarily go someplace other than your home. You’re moving and have not yet found a permanent abode. Solution? P.O. Box. Maybe your reasons border on the slightly more sordid. You want to mess around and you need your communications to be utterly private. You have decided to go underground and work for a secret government agency, communicating back and forth as to you progress while uncovering the various nefarious deeds being foisted upon us by our enemies. You think nothing of the unknown but annoying missives that appear almost daily in your rented receptacle. A letter to Mr. Smith from the association of universal religions. A letter to Marie Vunderbarten telling her that her order is ready to be shipped, and please contact the sender for verification. You collect these amongst others and bring them to a teller who is serving a customer. There are ten thousand more waiting on line. So you drop the letters off, mumble something about wrong box, at which point the teller says in a less than civilized tone of voice that can’t you see she’s busy, and get on the back of the line. You leave and from then on in you either throw what isn’t yours into the garbage or you push it back to the end of the rented box where it then falls on the floor and where the invisible idiots who work there surely suddenly realize that it is not your name on the envelope. This goes on for months on end. Till finally, one day, you find a permanent place to live, or you’ve decided to call it quits with your paramour, who in the strongest terms tells you not to stop while he or she vows to continue writing to you whether you like it or not. And so you go to a different teller in the post office to cancel your box, and then, as you leave, it hits you like a ton of bricks. The next person who gets that box will get whatever missives you’ve been getting, old and new alike. And what if they open those missives. And what if they then start reading. You slap your forehead. Holy crappola. Not only can you not trust politicians, but you now can no longer trust postal employees. For those of you who have post office boxes … think about this.
APPOINTMENTS
So. Ya gonna be here? -- ‘Course I’m gonna be there. I said so, didn’t I? -- Sayin’ ain’t doin’. When’re you gonna be here. -- I’ll be there when I get there is when I’ll be there. -- I need a when. When’re you gonna be here. -- Tomorrow. I’ll be there tomorrow. -- When tomorrow? -- Tomorrow tomorrow. Don’t make me crazy with your whens. -- I need a time. Got things to do. -- What things you got to do? -- Thing things. What time tomorrow. -- Ah jeez. One o’clock in the pee emm tomorrow. Okay? -- You sure? -- ‘Course I’m sure. Whaddya think? Ya think I say one in the pee emm when I don’t mean one in the pee emm? -- Just checkin’. -- Why you just checkin’? -- Got things to do is why. Just like I told you. -- Yeah yeah. The things you got to do is nuthin’ exceptin’ to say you got things to do to make you feel important. -- Not true. I got appointments. -- Appointments? With who? -- None a your damned bizness. Just if you tell me you’re gonna be here you better be here. -- Better? Better? Better or what? -- Better or else I’ll knock yer damned block off. -- You? A skinny two by four snip of a girl? You and who who else? -- Jest me wise ass. I don’t need no one else. Unless you wanna battle it out right now. -- Okay okay. Keep yer skirts on. I’ll be here. One in the pee emm on the button.
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And then I waited. He was my friend. My buddy. And he promised. Couldn’t sleep that night for the waiting. Got up at four in the morning. Eight hours till noon. Then one more hour till one. And then one came. And then one went. And two came. And it and the day went. I shook my head. I hated it when someone made an appointment and didn’t keep it. If truth be told, it’s one of my major pet peeves. And my cousin’s too. His name is Benjamin.
TRAFFIC
Traffic … and my total lack of understanding thereof. I live on Long Island near New York City, so I can only speak about my part of the world. I don’t know how it is elsewhere. But here’s the thing of it. For those scant few of you who are not aware, COVID 19 is infecting our living styles. Nobody should be going. Nobody should be coming. People don’t travel to work any longer. They work at home. Visitations to friends and family have become scant. Movies, restaurants, theaters, bowling, tennis, ping pong, libraries, bridge clubs, religious centers and more have all become no-no’s. We can’t go there, we don’t know into where or what the other members have been sticking noses. Dance halls, bars, casinos … have they been there? I ain’t going. Not on your life Charlie Brown. Muh mummy didn’t raise no dummy. The beach? Nah. The boardwalk maybe? Nah. A stroll about in the park? Nah. All too risky, ya know? Visit grandpa in the nursing home? Bah. They won’t let us in. Auntie Olga at the hospital? Nope. Want to do a sit-in in the kids’ classrooms, just to make sure they’re larnin’ stuff? Hah. Fuggedaboudit. Which brings this dilemma to the forefront. You’re driving on the Belt Parkway, or the Southern State, or the BQE, or maybe any other highway in the country. It’s the middle of the day … that time during the 24 hour cycle when folks are working, or going to school, or cooking dinner, or just plain staying away from a world filled with contagion, and yet, and yet, the highways, all the highways, are bloody well jammed. Where are they all coming from? Mars? Venus? Jupiter? There’s a virus floating around. Everyone should be cowering behind closed doors in the knowledge that discretion is always the better part of valor and no one should be out gallivanting about, risking infecting or getting infected. And yet I can’t get anywhere on a timely manner. The roads are more crowded than they ever were. The question I have is: WHYYYYYYY?
PLASTIC BAGS
Let the committee on Bags for Consumers (the BFC for thems wot don’t know) please come to order. We have here under consideration the question of whether we should use plastic bags or paper bags in our supermarkets. Does anyone want to add anything to this discussion before we pass on our decision for enforcement? Yes Michael. Go ahead.
Well folks. It appears that Israel is coming out with a new innovative type of plastic replacement which is just as strong as our plastic, just as light as our plastic, just as useful as our plastic, and is bio-degradable in water. Why not use that? Very good Michael. Yes Marie. Please proceed.
Well ladies and gentlemen. Thanks you very much for allowing me to speak. This plastic of which Michael speaks may well be true, but it is not yet available for general use. In the meantime we are decimating our oceans while killing off out wildlife. Paper bags, I say. When done, we can throw them on the ground, rain and weather will decompose them and those very decomposed bags will create fodder for new plant growth. And the bags, which costs us minimal bucks per thousand, can be sold for a nickel apiece, thereby boosting our much needed financial straits. Paper bags, I say. Paper bags for the good of our environment and paper bags for the good of our economy.
And so the BFC went into conference behind closed doors. The deliberations were vociferous. The new plastic bags that were coming out soon were good. But they were not yet out, at least not to the best of our knowledge. We cannot support that which is not yet there. We can vote on it again when the time comes. As to plastic versus paper, there is both the environment and the economy to consider. Who here at this meeting couldn’t use an increase in salary? Who here couldn’t use a vacation? We don’t want our fish to die. We don’t want to lose our whales. By a show of hands, who votes for paper bags at a nickel a pop and let’s get rid of those destructive plastic bags which afford us no income.
Let us now vote. With a show of hand: Plastic? Paper. Okay. Paper has it. No more plastic bags in supermarkets. What’s that? You. Young person. You have a question. What about the extra trees that will have to be destroyed to make the paper bags? Yes. Well. The devil take the trees. As long as they yield bags of money, let the trees be damned.
ICONIPOOS AND MUTTS
Here’s the thing of it. There are 44 poo mixes out there. In addition, there are 30 husky mixes. They cost big bucks. Today they’re called designer breeds. In days of yore they were called mutts. How much for that dog. Nuthin’. Zero. It’s a mutt. It ain’t worth crap. Today its a designer dog. It’s a Doggie-poo. In days of old, doggie-poo meant something entirely different. Somebody sends you a link to view a picture of their dog chewing on a bone. You’re about to respond, telling them how adorable the little creature is.
But now you have questions and choices. And the best part, you don’t have to write anymore. You have icons that do the talking for you. There’s the thumbs up. And the heart that means you love it. There’s a care, and a ha-ha, and a wow, and a sad, and even an angry. Are they kidding? Don’t they know by now that they have managed to limit your ability to communicate? How about an icon of a fist with the middle finger pointing to the heavens? It’s easier to click it than it is to say it. Perhaps a figure bent over and another figure kissing that now protruding bulbous mass. There’s a whole sentence there. Look. That one is holding his nose. The aroma is clearly defined. But wait. Icons only represent a small minutiae of today’s world. That icon with the question mark over his skull. What question is it asking. Oh. I know. What kind of dog is that it’s asking. Is it a Cocker-poo? Is is a Shih-poo? A Pomapoo or a Maltipoo or a Yorkipoo perhaps. Let’s have icons for all these different types. Designer dogs you say? Are you kidding? I’ve said before. They’re mutts. Nothing more. Yeah. But mutts don’t sell. And designer dogs are relatively cheap to breed. And they make you feel elitist. They may well have a Labrador. Bah. A dumb purebred. Me … I have a Labradoodle. And there are even new icons coming out for these elite mongering mutt owners. These mixed breeds were once worth nothing in days of yesteryear. And the icons are? Why, they’re image of dogs with a Poodle for a head and a Pekingese for a tail. That one is called a Pekapoo. Pekapoo … I see you. Each mutt with it’s own icon. We’ll call those Iconipoos. What kind of an icon is that. It’s an Iconipoo man. Don’t you know nuthin’? They used to be called Iconimutts till they were made to appeal to the high-falutin-poos of the world. And now you know all the poo there is to know.
THEY ONLY SPEAK THE TRUTH
Here’s the thing of it, based entirely on my limited knowledge of the intricacies of our people in the public arena and my experience when watching them speak on the telly. This one walks on stage with the strut of the self-assured. He or she pulls out a sheaf of what is clearly evidential papers. But I can’t see the print. For all I know the papers could be blank. Our speaker rests his or her glasses over to the very tip of his or her nose. This, we are assured, lends credibility to the speaker’s words. With great gravity, as he or she ruffles through his or her papers, he or she clears his or her throat and begins. According to these records, the status of the rules resulting from amending of paragraphs three, seven, and twelve, we will assure all personal that the statutes of order of the counties lying in the north-west corner of the eastern border will not be altered. Hunh? What did he or she say? Did you understand that? Never mind. No matter. Because the very next day, the statutes of order, whatever that was, were changed and reverse orders were instilled. How do I know that? “They” told me. All proclamations far and wide will hereby be nullified. Of course they’re not. Everybody earning under forty thousand dollars a year will receive a ten percent raise effective immediately. Of course they don’t. Drug prices will be reduced next week. They’re not. Supermarkets will now have enough toilet paper and paper towels to ensure each household in America has enough supplies to last a month. They don’t. Though we give them supplemental income to live quite comfortably on, they will still come to work every day. They don’t. The glasses that were resting at the very tip of his or her nose slip off. They are caught before they hit the ground. The speaker grins shyly with a grin of accomplishment. We the speakers of this country embrace the trust you give us. We the speakers of this country never ever lie. But they do.
PANDEMIC KNOW-IT-ALLS
This little crisis of ours has, in its unique way, made great savants and scholars and intellectuals of more of us that I would have ever thought possible. I watch the riots. Whaddya mean wear masks? We don’t need masks you mentally deficient species of nincompoop. Masks are for fools. You say you don’t want to go to the movies with me? Too risky? What risky you cretinous portion of bull’s testicles? No gambling halls, no on-site Bridge Games, no Ping pong clubs, no eating in crowded arenas, no public speaking? The risks are too great you say? And where pray tell did you hear this you abysmally pathetically stupid first class ignoramus imbued with a ridiculous sense of self-elevated self-importance prodded on by your woeful insecurities? Oh. Joe told you? And Mary told you too? And besides that, no one needed to tell you, you say? You read it somewhere. Where? In the papers? On Case-Book? On Flyaway? On Connected To? The Dreary Weary Magazine for Simpletons? Oh yes oh yes. I have heard of these publications. And I must say I have heard of all the positions those folks take. But here’s the thing of it. I ask you all. Have any of you seen, or heard, or even met any of the people to whom these great savants speak? Have any of you met a nincompoop? Or a cretin? Or anyone inflated with a self-elevating sense of self importance? No you say? Well then, all I can say is that you are a bunch of fortunate folks. Me? I’ve met more than my share. They are the self-appointed intellectuals imbued with their own senses of importance. Most of them are at the movies, or at the gambling halls, or in the crowded arenas. Most of them are the accusers and the mockers … all sending effusive kisses to their mirror images.
FRONT ROOM – BACK ROOM
FRONT ROOM:
I’ll tell you what it’s called. You tell me if you agree. Your old washing machine no longer works. It was great. It had a dial which turned as the cycle progressed. You’re halfway through. You’re two thirds of the way through. And then your done. The dial has guided you along your route through the years. Today there are two lights. Red. Then green. Then done. The approximation is vague at best.
You need a Wi-Fi extender for your home. You are told that this one here is good. Top of the line. You buy it. You set it up and it works. For a while. And then you’re having problems. You check to see if it’s getting electricity. Uh-oh. No lights. No indicator to tell you if it’s connected or not. Buy a new one? No! Try to re-set the old one to see if you can get it to work. How many hours, days, weeks do you have to try? Ah screw it. Money be damned. And so you buy a new one and hope for the best. Oh, this is the most advance model, you are told. No worries on this. Worth all the extravagant dollars you are about to spend before we screw you.
BACK ROOM: C’mon guys. We got a new product to put out. It’s got to look like it’s a great piece of machinery. We got to build in the flaws. We have to ensure it doesn’t last. A few years ago they put in a Sazamafrazz. That product lasted almost eight years. That’s eight years we’re talking here men. Who can make a product that lasts eight years and still make a profit? No more than six years at the most here men. And let’s add in some impossible to decipher progressive doo-dads. Make them ultimately give up on the machine in four years. Up our profit by near double if they give up early. Okay. Clap clap. Let’s get a move on.
AND WHAT IS THIS CALLED? It is called, ladies and gentlemen, Planned Obsolescence. And in case you don’t believe planned obsolescence exists, consider this. Why were these words thought up to begin with unless it was to describe a situation which actually existed?
I DON’T CARE:
There are those who tend to protect themselves by stating they don’t care. Then, when disappointment comes along, they’re prepared. Good evening Marie-Lou. Would you like to have dinner with me? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. You don’t want to have me as a friend any longer because my views do not coincide with yours? That’s okay. I don’t care. Would you please share with me the name of the person who does your hair? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. Can I borrow your shoes, your shirt, your bat, your glove? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. Wanna go to the movies? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. My sister, my brother, my mother, my father, they’re ill, they’re in the hospital, can you drive me over? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. Will you marry me? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. Hello. I’m home. I’m sick. Do you deliver? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. Good day doctor’s office. I don’t feel well. Can I come over today, tomorrow, next week, next month? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. I want to buy a new computer. Does it come with a manual? Can I order a manual? Can I download a manual. No? That’s okay. I don’t care. Does the car come with an engine, does the plane have a jet, does the boat have a keel? No? That’s okay. I don’t care. Hello? Protection devices? Do you sell anything I can use to protect myself from humanity’s foibles? You do? Can I buy it? How much is it? What’s it called. You have two similar items? They come in the form of protection activators. They have two names you say. One is called “I don’t give a shit” and the other is “No? That’s okay. I don’t care.” I’ll take both. Cost is no issue. One cannot protect oneself enough against our species, can one?
UPDATES:
You’re in the middle of your thesis on intermingling humans with aliens in order to create a brand new species to roam the earth when suddenly a notice flashes across your screen. “Stop. Desist. Save your work. Install this vitally crucial update immediately.” And so you halt your train of thought. You go to the fridge to get a cold brew and when you get back, all is well. And a new day peaks over the horizon. You friend is ill and in the hospital. You will write a friendly and endearing email. You begin with dear friend of mine when suddenly… “Stop. Desist. Save your work. Install this vitally crucial update immediately.” What the eff? You sigh. You click the ok go ahead button. Your screen begins to do the Techie Tango. You go to make a phone call and the day wanes. Your boss calls you because you now find yourself working remotely. Send out instructions immediately. The Jigamapoo is jammed. You begin to type furiously when suddenly, yup. You got it. “Stop. Desist. Save your work. Install this vitally crucial update immediately.” The goddamn bloody updates are making you crazy. You shut everything down and make ready to watch a good flick on the telly instead. But the phone rings. Your boss thinks he owns you. Back to the ‘puter. You rush like a fiend in order to get done before the evil sign of the techno-plague rears its ugly head again. You’re racing the elements. You get to the last sentence. You finish with no interruptions. You sigh a huge sigh of relief. The notice did not flash across your screen. You run down to get a brewskie. The telly is waiting. The movie begins. But then, dammit: “Stop. Desist. Save your work. Install this vitally crucial update immediately.” And do you do the only logical thing to prevent these invasions. You kill yourself. And you suddenly find yourself on a stairway to heaven. You reach the gates. There’s a huge sign blocking your view of the inside. “Stop. Desist. Save your work. Install this vitally crucial update immediately.” Yarggghhhh.
PROTECTION:
Ah. Living in a civilized world ain’t no easy thing. Remember the olden days, when you grabbed your spear, and perhaps your sling, which, by the way, I should make for myself one of these days as I learned as a youngster how to use one, and then went out hunting for dinner with the rest of your clan? And then one day, after having slain a particularly tasteful morsel, as you were traipsing on your way home, another clan who happened to be in your neck of the woods, came along and took your morsel. You and yours were not happy. So you approached a third clad and told them you would give them a piece of everything you caught if they would patrol the environs and pound the brains to a pulp of anyone who took from you what wasn’t theirs. The would be called Captors On Patrol Surveyors. COPS for short. And so, when you killed a rabbit, they got a leg. But I have to tell you, it’s getting ridiculous. In days of old you had a web site. You sold on it. Or you shared info. And that was that. But no more lads and lassies. Now they have something called SSL. Secure Socket Layer. You have or had a web site which you once thought did not need SSL. Only thing is, they tell you, it’s not secure. Instead of prefacing your URL with “http”: HyperText Transfer Protocol, you now have to preface with “https”: HyperText Transfer Protocol Secure. For your own protection of course. And for an extra sum each year, also of course. I just lost one rabbit’s foot, a tail, two ears, and three inches of intestines. There’s hardly enough left to feel my family. Ye gads man.
YOURS TRULY: Why doesn’t anyone ever answer the questions asked I wonder?
INTERVIEWS ON THE TELLY:
I once read that in conversations, very few listen but rather only wait for their turn to speak. That said … I’m watching the telly. By a unique quirk of fate, I’ve tuned into a news station. I hate, as in, I HATE, news interviews. They are, to put it succinctly, full of shit. Let’s call the station WFFFY (initialyzing revealed in third to last paragraph) located in the USA. The interviewer is asking the interviewee some questions.
INTERVIEWER: Why do you think it has taken so long to get the riots in your town under control?
INTERVIEWEE: Let us take into our narration the lack of climate control in Paris...
INTERVIEWER: No no no. You’re evading the question, which I repeat. Why do you think it has taken so long…
INTERVIEWEE: I will be happy to answer your question, but to fully understand my answer I first have to give you my response as regards intermarriage between animals and humans. So…
INTERVIEWER: (sighing in resignation) Let us move on to a different topic Do you approve of our aiding Israel…
INTERVIEWEE: There definitely are those who believe the I.Q. of dark haired people far supersedes those of the lighter haired…
INTERVIEWER: Well, we’ve certainly adequately covered the most important topics of the day and I would like to invite you to come visit us again when you are able. We truly value your opinions and we hope you know that.
INTERVIEWEE: Oh yes. Indeed I do. And this was indeed a most pleasant visit. I found your questions quite insightful, never mind that they may have also been a tad inciteful...
INTERVIEWER: Thank you, of course. Next week, if you would truly like to come back, we can discuss the advantages of Polygamy versus Monogamy.
INTERVIEWEE: Of course. It would be my pleasure. I have studied childbirth versus abortion for many years.
INTERVIEWER: How about you go take a Wild Flying Fuck For Yourself.
INTERVIEWEE: Verbal negotiations has always been a favorite mode of communications of mine. Next week it is then.
YOURS TRULY: Why doesn’t anyone ever answer the questions asked I wonder?
PRESCRIPTIONS:
Hoo hah. You are going to love this. Imagine you’re elderly. You’re alone. Your mate, your children, your dog, your cat, and your friends have all traveled to other worlds or existences leaving you to fend for yourself as best you can, till and if they return to this one. You have a disease. You don’t know it’s name for sure, not that it matters. Let’s call it the Malaysian Ear Fluggensheim. MEF for short. You have pills you need to take. You have five days worth of medication. If you don’t treat MEF, your mouth will quadruple its saliva output and you will exude enough drool to fill an Olympic size swimming pool. You call the automated number for your drugstore, press the appropriate number to reach the refill department, press in your prescription number, and then press 2 to let the idiot robot know your done. Before you hang up, you are told by a reedy voice that your prescription has expired and your doctor will be notified on the next business day. And so you wait. And you wait. And you wait till 4 days have gone by. You call the drugstore. You ask what’s going on. They tell you they called in the prescription 3 days ago. Maybe you should call your doctor. Which you do. The nurse, after you’ve told her your name, says they never got the prescription. Could she have your date of birth. You give it to her. Aha, she says. She found your prescription. What was the problem? Well, you see, here at the doctor’s office, we never see a refill unless we open your file. So how do you know to open my file when I need a prescription filled, you ask. The nurse tells you she doesn’t know. Duh. You’re going crazy at the idiocy of the medical profession as you watch your pool fill to overflow. Any of you ever wonder why the prescription you called in a week ago has to date not been filled? Now you know.
ADVICE:
What to do? Oh what to do? Who to ask? You need advice. Where do you go? Jim or John or Sue or Mary? They’re all smart. How do you know? Because they told you so. Not in so many words of course. By inference. By the sagacity so clearly apparent when they nod their heads knowingly after each precious statement they’ve uttered. Look at him or her, resting his or her chin in the palm of his or her hand while staring deep into the eyes of a random speaker. A little smirk at the corners of his or her mouth, and you instantly know the speaker is an idiot. A furrow of understanding in the brow, and you know the speaker is a direct descendant of Aristotle himself and every word that drips from his lips are to be heeded without question. Who better to solve your dilemma than your friend who can tell at a glance, with hardly a spoken interchange needed for accurate analysis, who is the dolt in the crowd and who is nearly equal to his or her lofty standards. You will have no trouble finding this person. There is nary a human alive who doesn’t wake up each morning and look in the mirror, and admire the unquestionable intellectual reflection staring back at him or her. There are very few who doubt their brainpower. And so you make your choice. You choose that one. That one is truly quite bright. That one indicated that prowess many times over. And so you ask. What should I do? How should I do it? When? What? Where? Why? Who? How? And you wait, twisting your now sodden handkerchief in your hands, letting its gathered droplets of sweat drip into the puddle at your feet. And you are told. Take a left. Do it then. Go slow and then go fast. Climb to the top. Scoot over the rooftops. Fear nothing for fear will only slow you down. Top speed or nothing. Eyes straight ahead. Look to neither side. Ignore those who would tell you to act in a manner different than that which I tell you to do. Distrust the advice of others. Heed no other human but me. And so you do as you are told. And you follow each twist exactly as you were told. And you reach the end of your journey. And you look around. And you find that you have failed. You try to hunt down your friend, who is now suddenly nowhere to be found. And you sit down. And you figure it out. The only advice that’s worth even a farthing, or a red cent, is that of the one that belongs to the reflection in your mirror. So follow it.
RUDENESS FROM OTHERS:
There will be times, dear readers, that a pet peeve of mine will take on an aura of weirdness that will have trouble finding its equal in this great universe of ours. Such a pet peeve is Rudeness From Others. This is not really a pet peeve, but rather a blessing. Perhaps I should call this, as it turns out, My Pet Blessing of the week. Let me begin by presupposing that you are a decent soul who would never consider hurting another human. It is not part of your nature. Now let us suppose that someone was rude to you, that someone verbally attacked you, that someone denigrated your very existence. Consider yourselves lucky. They have not, as you might suppose, done you harm. Nay nay old chums. What they have done was a good deed. They have gifted you a gift of the highest caliber. And even calibre. They have just returned from a shopping spree after having marched themselves straight into a military armaments store and made some purchases. I’ll take one sub-machine gun please. And that Uzi. A couple of AK47 rifless if you don’t mind. A Ruger, a Luger, a Smith and Wesson, and a Magnum too. Please gift wrap them and put a pretty bow around them all. Also a shoulder pack to put them all in so that I may easily carry them around and dole them out as needed. And now, as they walk their walks, you meet, and for no discernible reason, they insult you to the quick. Your normal response is to do nothing. But unbeknownst to you, they have slipped you your weapon du jour. You have received from them the weaponry need to attack back. They have given you the tools you need to mount a guiltless counter-attack, if not now, if not today, then sometime in one of the oncoming tomorrows. A moment will arise when you will be prompted to offer a counter-punch, when they least expect it, that will decimate your newly acquired enemy to the point where he or she will never be able to fully emotionally recover. All this because you were given the donation of an unprovoked insult. So, next time someone hands you an underhanded slap in the face, just grin, and say nothing, for you were just given a free contribution of a powerful weapon which you will one day use when you are at the ready.
AH FOR THE GOOD OLD DAYS:
And now, ladies and gentlemen, a direct quote. “Google and Canonical partner to bring Linux app support to Flutter.” Are they kidding me? I remember once, a long long time ago, when you picked up the phone and an operator got on and said: “May I help you?” And you told her who you wanted to talk to, and then the phone rang, and a voice at the other end said something to the effect of: “Good morning. This is the Let’s Not Make You Crazy Company. May I help you?”And you told her what you wanted and she connected you and within two or three minutes after having first picked up the phone. You were now on your way. Today technology has taken over and humans are quickly becoming dispensable. I have a cell phone. Won’t give you the name because if I do SAMSUNG will not be happy. It has an app. Won’t tell you that name because AT&T will not be happy if I say Visual Voice Mail which is not working. I called. I pressed 1, then 3, then 9, then 257, then … I got a recording. I finally got a rep. Half hour down the tubes, I told him my problem. He said he had to access my phone. I said go ahead. But he couldn’t fix it. Company will get back to you, he said. I’m still waiting for their notification that all is not well. I don’t understand why he could not fix it. I suspect updates killed the app. I don’t understand the words I quoted in the beginning of this peeve. What is Flutter. What is a Canonical partner. I know now. I looked it all up. This precious info came via a news feed to which I subscribe. Very few bits of information are clear. You want clarity, look to the sky on a non cloudy day. Otherwise, fuggedaboudit. But still I try. I open a news article. Dead center is a blurb. Want to get rid of a headache, it says. Click here. I already have a headache due to lack of clarity. So I click there where it tells me to click. And I come to a second blurb. It says: Thanks to the miracle of Doctor Crazyinthehead, we are able to offer you a video with step by step instructions as regards getting rid of your headache. Click here to see video. And so I click there where I’m told to click. Congratulations, they tell me. You taken the first essential step to, once and for all, getting rid of your headache. Click here… Help! Someone. Anyone. Where do I click in order to get clarity? Please please please bring me back to the good old days when simplicity reigned.
IT’S REAL. IT’S FAKE:
Of course there’s a difference between real and fake, my love. You do like my new diamond ring, do you not? Is it real? Is it fake? Oh please. No no no. We don’t use fake anymore dearie. It’s so bourgeois. Today we use faux. Though I must say I don’t wear faux diamonds. It’s real or nothing for me dahling. But. But but. What’s the difference between real or fake, you ask? Everything is real if you think about it, is it not? Oh please. How else are the elitists going to be able to differentiate themselves from the common people if they aren’t willing to shell out a few more shekels for something they like to call the genuine article? I wouldn’t be seen dead in a faux anything, from jewelry to fur. Unless I was going slumming of course. Imitations are always acceptable when mingling with the lower classes. There are times when one just must pass. It wouldn’t do to put on airs with your lessers. Why make them feel their insignificances? We know who we are. We don’t have to force our ways upon others. They can’t help being what they are, the same way a donkey can’t help it that he’s not a thoroughbred horse. Why, sometimes when I’m mingling with the help, I speak in incorrect grammatical English. It ain’t so, I tell them. I’ll be gol-durned and hot damn girl, and if that ain’t a pisser. I don’t wear the real stuff when I’m around them. I do have some friends who are not up to our class you know. They try of course. They strive to elevate themselves. I wear my faux fur and faux diamonds when I’m with them. I wear my Levi’s at thirty dollars a pair instead of my Valentino’s at nine hundred and ninety dollars a pair. I wear Macy’s instead of Oscar De La Renta. I feel deliciously sleazy when I walk into a cheap store. But we do what we must to make others feel comfortable. I care about my virtual friends. Those whom I met unwillingly during the course of life. But I don’t mind. I do what I have to do. I have no airs. No no no. Nothing fake in my life. Nothing fake about me. I am the real thing. I am genuine. Am I not?
OUR BRAINS:
Oh, so convoluted an oval it is. Imagine a six inch wide by four and a quarter inch high 3 dimensional globule weighing about three pounds and resting on a slender stalk measuring about three quarters of an inch thick. It’s a bit like balancing a cauliflower on a celery stalk. How do we manage that? And how inflated a sense of self it has. It is only one brain per human. And yet it urges us to refer to it as my brains. We don’t say my bodies. Or my hearts. Where there’s only one, we use the singular. So why my brains? It uses the royal plural form when it want us to communicate with it. Not only that, but it also wants to compete with other brains that reside comfortably, or perhaps not so comfortably, within the skulls of other humans. The brains (not brain) of this human is far superior that the brains (again not brain) of that human. You sir, I pose this question: You measure my life in hours and I serve you by expiring. I'm quick when I'm thin and slow when I'm fat. The wind is my enemy. Who or what am I? What? You can not solve it? You sir, have the brains of a dolt. It is a candle. Your name sir? If you please. Joe Louis, you say? The great boxer? Yes well. You do have that ability. I, of course, would prefer Einstein as my friend. What’s that, my good man? You want me to walk alone through Fuller Park, the most dangerous neighborhood in Chicago, with only one friend allowed to accompany me. Yes, well, Einstein is all well and good Joe. But if you don’t mind, I would prefer you as company. Brains are actually a tad overrated. What’s that Joe. You want me to explain something to you. Of course. That’s what brains are for. So what do you want to know? Why oh why aren’t brains referred to in the singular? Is there more than one brain behind those eyes? Or is it all just a question of egocentricity, all those twists and turns nothwithstanding?
QUESTION OF RECOGNITION.
Here’s what it is. You desperately need a stroke of luck, or so you’ve been advised. And so you start looking. You try high. You try low. You go to the left. You go to the right. You climb mountains. You scale valleys. Perhaps, you begin to think, that for you the luck does not exist. You call it out. Hey. You. Luck. You hear a slight rustle of the wind in the trees. But you don’t see the luck. You begin to open drawers. Nope. Not there. You try the closets, the shelves in the garage, the back alleys of the slums of the city. Nope again. You begin to read the periodicals. Nothing. You try the library. Zero. You begin to ask strangers in the streets. You know where I can get some luck? Nope. Sorry pal. No clue. You’re going out of your mind. You go into a bar as a last resort. You buy everyone a drink. You don’t hold out hope. They’re all half drunk. To the luck of the unfortunate, you shout out with your glass held high. To the luck of the damned they shout back, toasting you and all the other patrons. So by the way, you say, hiding the slur in your voice, anyone here know where I can get some of that luck? It’s all over the place, says one. You can get some at a newsstand, or at any dollar store. Or even on the street. You stare at the guy. Want to show me? Sure. And he takes you to the newsstand across the street. Gimme some luck for my friend here. And the vendor pulls out a small bag of luck and hands it to you. And you stare at it. You’ve seen this before. And it suddenly hits you that often, when you’re looking for something, and you can’t find it, it’s because you often don’t recognize that you found what you’ve been looking for. Recognizing luck when it comes your way is quite often more than half the battle. Why doesn’t it make itself more apparent?
INVICTUS
by
William Ernest Henley – 1849-1903
This is the poem that inspired Nelson Mandela to persevere through hardship. It has been hanging on my wall for quite some time.
It is one of my favorites. I pass it on in lieu of a pet peeve. I shall call it this week’s Pet Enchantment for it has
always enchanted me.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
THE LAW: This might well be aimed at those scant few of you who are glued to your televisions for want of anything else to do, politics aside. A woman was brought before a judge who deemed it necessary, through her elevated sense of self, to fine or jail this lady for opening her place of business in order to make money to feed her children. We are all born with one mind and one body, all equal one to the other. Yet there are those amongst us who feel their worth is more than the worth of those who do not ride the elite flotilla upon which they were fortunately thrust. The judge tried to punish this woman for having broken the law. After public outcry, the judge recanted. But here’s the thing of it all. While injustices abound, the criminalization of the innocent also flourishes. In ancient England, I once read, it was illegal to eat a pickle while walking backwards on the sidewalk? Ridiculous you say. But but, says the judge, that pickle eater might bump into someone and knock them on the ground and harm them. Therefore, I fine this person five hundred million billion pounds for doing this dastardly deed. This is only a wee bit of an example. We have had a few stupid ones here too. Anybody out there ever read Orwell’s Animal Farm? All animals are equal… There’s more but I’ll get into trouble enumerating them. What this all means is that there is no shortage of blithering idiots out there creating unjust laws for no other reason than to elevate their own senses of self. To those morons, who have no idea what they’re doing, to you I say this. Every time you create a law that’s impossible to adhere to, you also create one or more outlaws. Outlaws, one might say, are as often as not, the creation of lawmakers. And that my friends, is my pet peeve of the week.
WHEN TUBES OF TOOTHPASTE FART: This, my friends and foe alike, is a recent discovery. And so, I do not have enough repetitive information to verify its accuracy. Here is the situation of which I have become aware a few times in the past few days. I have three different tubes of toothpaste, one of which I use regularly. The other two are for in case. Two tubes are 2” x 6” and one tube (This is the one I mostly use) is 1.75” x 5”. The larger tubes contain 4oz. and 3.4oz. respectively. The small one contains1.8oz. Or so it is printed on the outside. I was born innocent, and so when you told me something, I believed it. And then I got older, and the older I got, the less I believed. Today, the only thing I truly believe is that they’re all trying to screw me. Call me a cynic. A few days ago, as I was glancing at that crazy looking devil in the mirror, I picked up my dental brush and began to squish some toothpaste on in. All of a sudden, the tube farted and a wee gush of air came out before the rest of the portion of toothpaste I was seeking followed. My suspicious mind immediately went into high gear. Are the ounces the tube says the ounces the tube has? Do the people who dole the product out, program the computer directed squooshers to interrupt the pasty flow with a bubble of air, reducing the amount by a smidgeon. Multiply that bubble with a world population of 7.8 billion and multiply that amount by the amount of toothpaste replaced by that wee bit of a bubble, and we’re talking big bucks here folks. I submit that I DO NOT know if this is true. But these are not the questions. The multiple questions are as follows. Is this possible? Is this tempting? Or is this nothing more than happenstance which resides in dubious comfort a mere micron above suspicion? And my last but not least of course, for extra credit, how many of you answered Yes, Yes, and No to my first three questions? Let me know. Do we thing alike? Or is my thinking process simply an aberration born of a cynical mind?
GRUDGES ARE FOREVER: So here’s what it is. And this is only my observations, limited as they may be. You have a spat with a friend. There’s no such thing as infinity you say. He or she responds that of course there is and if you can’t understand that, you’re not as smart as he or she thought you were. You draw your verbal sword. You calling me stupid? Yeah, I’m calling you stupid. At which point he or she gets up from the dinner table, throws a few bills in your direction in order to take care of the bill, and stalks off. He or she does not forgive disagreements. And now the friend is a friend no longer. Fortunately, you have no lack of friends. It’s ten o’clock in the evening. The phone rings. Yo … ol’ pal ol’ buddy of mine. I need a ride into the city. I need it now. Whaddya say? Your eyes roll to the heavens. What’s going on in this world? Is everybody crazy. Sorry old friend, you say. Can’t do it. It’s late. Got to get to work early tomorrow. You friend responds, advising you just exactly where to insert your work obligations, and telling you at the same time not to call anymore. We’re no longer friends. And then you hear the click. And your now ex-friend is gone. The next day, during lunch when you tend to dine with a few work compatriots, you tell them the tale of your friends that were. To your amazement, they all agree with the positions taken by past companions, and with a few well-chosen words, explain to you that you are nothing short of a total imbecile. Not only that, but they, as a matter of allegiances by proxy to your friends that once were, do not absolve your acts, and have thusly and therefore decided to part ways. They have decided that they will not pardon you. But now here’s the thing of it all. Every weekend, Saturday for some, Sunday for others, they all go to their temples or churches or mosques, and they bow their heads in humble prayer as they each speak to their gods. And do you know what they ask for? Yup. You got it. Each and every one pleads for that which they will not give. They plead for forgiveness and understanding. Sheesh. Now that’s what I call an insane dichotomy. Or is it hypocrisy? Or is it something I just do not comprehend?
SNAKE OIL: I know you all know the scene. He is wearing a top hat to lend legitimacy to his spiel. Get yer bottle of Doctor Luke’s Medical Marvel. Cures lumbago. Fixes sagging jowls. Restores manhood. Makes yer hair grow. And for those cain’t see so good no more, for thems who have cataracts, I have Doctor Luke hisself here to operate on the spot. He puts you to sleep with a few drops of chloroform, and a few minutes later, yer cured. And we give you proof. Oh look, Mary. Let’s try it. And so they pay their two bucks and Doctor Luke puts a cloth over her nose and mouth and bandages her eyes. When she wakes, he shows her the thin membrane that he took off the outer edge of a hard boiled egg. And he tells here this was the problem. He removed it from her eye. Keep the bandages in place for a week, and you’ll be as good as new. And then he’s gone. Question for you all. Have things changed? Or is Snake Oil today still Snake Oil, only under a different name. You need a med for this. You need a med for that. This guy on the telly who gets paid a substantial sum of money, touts this as his medicine of choice. Is he a doctor? Hell no. Does he have any medical training? Bah. And if it doesn’t work, too bad. It’s called free enterprise. I will give you all a test. Go look at that med that favors your interest. Sixty nine dollars for which you get sixty tablets. Take two a day and a month, or two, or three, you will see improvement. But whoa. Hold on a minute. Here’s a very similar med. Same money. But they give you one hundred and twenty tablets. That’s half the cost. Double the value. And so you grab it. And you get it in the mail. They gave you just what they promised. One hundred and twenty tabs for sixty nine dollars. You’re elated. You start reading the instructions in fine print. In order for this med to work properly they tell you, you must, you just must take four tabs a day. You didn’t see that part. They didn’t bother to tell you. They gave you double the amount and dosed it at double the amount. Savings? Zero! Hey. Doctor Luke? Now where is that guy when you’re looking for him? Ah, the world of honest advertising and honest medicine. Where has it gone? Yoo hoo. Doctor Luke? Where are youuuuu?
