My stepson was talking to Suri the other day.  He always talks to Suri.  Suri is the one with all the answers.

“Suri, do the Warriors play basketball tonight?”

“The Warriors play at seven pm central tonight, Savage Weiner.”

My stepson said something else.  Apparently, it was a garbled message.

“I do not know what you are saying, Savage Weiner.”

At this point, my wife intervened.  She asked my stepson why Suri was calling him Savage Weiner.  After a bit of dissembling, my stepson admitted setting up his account to be addressed in this manner.

“For whatever for, dear heart?” my wife asked.  Or something to that effect.

He had no good reason.  Little boys rarely do in such instances, particularly when their mother is involved.  Eventually, he blamed the whole thing on his older brother’s friend, Leo.  Apparently Leo calls himself Savage Weiner and my stepson thought he should follow suit.  Damn you, Leo, for corrupting your friend’s younger sibling.

Of course, we lectured my stepson on why he shouldn’t have Suri calling him Savage Weiner.  My wife used words like appropriate and class and told him that he might very well lose his phone if he didn’t quit having Suri call him Savage Weiner.  Eventually, my stepson agreed that he shouldn’t have Suri call him Savage Weiner.

Two days later I was reading a book.  I heard my stepson talking.

“How much degrees is it outside right now?” he asked.

“I’m not sure what you are asking, Ballsack24.”

“What’s the temperature right now?”  I smiled.  I have repeatedly told him that he should ask about the temperature and not degrees.  It is so rewarding when a child listens to what you tell him.

“The temperature is fifty eight degress, Ballsack24.”

Needless to say, Suri is not calling anyone Ballsack24 in our household these days.  But it got me to thinking about possible alternate identities (as expressed by Suri).

“How do you spell Syria?” asks Donald Trump.

“Are you effing kidding me, Smallhandspussygrabber?”

Perhaps Scott Walker wants to know something.  “Suri, how do you spell Syria?”

“That’s the same stupid question Smallhandspussygrabber asked, Goggleeyed Homunuculus.”

“Where is the nearest donut shop?” queries Rush Limbaugh.

“You don’t need another donut, Fatassballlicker17.  Try a walk.”

Just to be fair and balanced, perhaps Bill and Hillary are having an argument.  It seems that Bill thinks that the best way to get to Little Rock is on little used highway 47 while Hillary prefers an alternate route.

“Suri, what is the fastest route to Little Rock, Arkansas?” drawls Bill.

“Highway 47 all the way, Wetcigar 69.”

“I think you are mistaken, Suri,” Hillary replies.

“Screw you, bitch.”

As you can see, the possibilities for electronic alter egos are endless.  MuffetsOrangeisKingofttheWorld 12, signing off for now.

Talking to you, Stevewearswomensunderwear 93.

 

 

I am a monkey.  At least, I dreamed I was a monkey.  How fun that was.  I swooped from tree limb to tree limb without a care in the world.  Well, leopards.  They are a care of monkeys.  Of course, there were no leopards in my dreams.  My dreams seldom have any problems.  Except the dreams where I am falling to my death.  But monkeys never fall.  Ergo, no problems.

When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares all the time.  Sometimes giants were coming after me.  Sometimes it was vampires.  Occasionally, it was some sort of boogey man type creature.  This was before my monkey days, so I always had to run from these monsters.  Invariably, my legs wouldn’t work.  I’m sure there is probably some sort of Freudian explanation for all of this.  EEEE EEEEE EEEEEEE.  But I am a monkey who eschews Freudian explanation.  I throw my own feces around for fun.  EEEE EEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

I only know one letter of your Arabic alphabet.  We speak monkey around here.

But what kind of monkey am I, you ask?  Stupid question.  I am a macaque.  Macaques are the only monkey who live in a northern climate.  Actually, there may be others, but I am too lazy to Google monkey facts.  I am also a monkey and not interested in your stupid Googling.  Feces throwing, that is my game.  Throw enough feces against the wall and some of it sticks.

That is monkey existentialism.  It doesn’t have to mean anything.  Don’t you have a damn wall to build or some people to bomb?  Nobody ever got hurt flinging shit.

The good thing about monkeyness is that your existence is simple.  There is no Suri.  Suri is a concept beyond the mind of a monkey.  Just because I can hear my stepson asking Suri a bunch of damn questions he could silently look up himself, does not mean I can comprehend a disembodied voice.  Besides, do you know where Suri is?

She is everywhere.  Except you cannot see her.

Suri is a digital Bigfoot.  Speaking of Bigfoot, I wonder how one would taste.  Perhaps a bit gamy.  But maybe I am selling them short.  I hear dog is not as bad as you’d think.

I just remembered another care of monkeys.  People often eat them.  But not this monkey.  I live in a virtual world.  Like Jesus or the Silver Surfer.  If either of them flung feces.  Come to think of it, Jesus kind of looked like a darker Bobby Sands.  (A little IRA joke there.  You don’t hear those every day.  Terrorism is not a joking matter.)

The Unabomber, Osama Bin Laden and Timothy McViegh go into a bar.  See?  It already sucks.  Plus, it makes no sense.  The Unabomber and McViegh hated people.  And Muslims don’t drink.  Of course, sometimes jokes are ironic.

Monkeys don’t get irony.  That’s iron-EEEE-EEEE to us monkeys.

I wonder if there is a macaque somewhere taking a nap right now and dreaming that he is the MO.  That would be extra freaky.  But would he really even know he was dreaming?  Hard to say.  Scientists are split concerning the notion of consciousness in monkeys.  You would think there would be a test.

Pass this test and you are self aware.  Fail, well…. it wouldn’t really matter.  Back to shit throwing.  It would be terrible to be a monkey with tennis elbow.  Just watching other monkeys slinging the old poop.  Sad monkey.  Very sad.

Perhaps I will be a monkey again tonight.

FSM willing.  Unless the FSM is only a figment of my imagination.

I wonder how the FSM would taste?  Like Italian, I suppose.

This is purely speculation at this point.  Nobody can say for sure whether the FSM is real or not.

Metaphysics is pretty much asinine.  I could be the Jackson Pollock of Wisconsin macaques.  I just need to be discovered.  In my dream.  Perhaps by the team from Inception.

I’m a monkey inside of a MO, inside a macaque, inside a MO again, inside a FSM, firing bolus’ against a dream wall.  That top will never quit spinning.

The top is you.  Or the shit is you.  Hard to say at this point.

You know, in some alternative universe this blog post is never over.  It is eternal.

 

Donald Trump admitted that he thought “it would be easier” being President.  It seems that in his previous life, he “had so many things going” and “this (the Presidency) is more work.  He added that the thing with North Korea is more complex than he thought it was.

Who knew?  After all, every fat guy on a bar stool can tell you how to fix things in this country.  Maybe Donald should go talk to one of them.  I have taken the liberty of making a list below (in case Donald is too busy to hit up the Dew Drop Inn on his way down to Florida):

1- Run the government like a business.  This is so obvious.  The problem is the politicians don’t know how to do finances.  Slurrrrrppp!!! Can I get another one of these over here?

What do you mean, Gene says I need to pay my tab?  I’m good for it.

Well, I don’t have it on me right now.  I’ll have the money when I get my check.

Anyway, Ross Perot had it right.  I loved that guy.  We wouldn’t have any of the problems we have now if he would have got elected.  Run it like a business.

2- Bomb the Middle East into glass.  (You see, sand turns to glass when superheated like, say, when you drop some nuclear bombs on their ass).  I don’t know why we keep pissing around with these guys.  The only thing they understand is a punch in the nose.  We kill all of them, we don’t have any more problems.  Then we just roll in there and take over the oil fields ourselves.

Ahhh.  That stuff on nuclear fallout is a bunch of egghead bullshit.  How do they know?  I mean, it’s never happened.

I heard that Japan stuff was mostly propaganda.  From the liberal media.  Pussies.

3- Make everything a flat tax.  I could change the tax code in fifteen minutes.  Everybody pays a flat rate.  The tax form would be one page for everybody.  No deductions.  Save everybody time and money.

Taxation on income is government overreach.  So, don’t tax that at all, actually.

Yeah, I know I can’t have another drink until I settle my tab.  I already told you I will when my check comes in.  This is bullshit.  I’ve been coming to this bar for twenty years.

The thing is, you make the tax rate the same, then everybody will pay their part.  No more lawyer’s tricks by the big guys.  What?  No.  What’s a progressive tax?

I hate the word progressive.  Dumb.

4- Bomb North Korea to glass.  My grandpa fought in Korea.  He said we should have solved the problem right then.  Could have taken care of the Chinese, too.  Then we wouldn’t have all this cheap shit from over there.

I’m leaving already.  I have to go to WalMart, anyway.  Yeah, I heard you.  The next time I come in, I will settle up.  I know Gene means it.  Everything is about money with you people.  What happened to community values?

5- Allow everyone to carry.  Guns reduce crime.  I sure wouldn’t go robbing people if I knew they might be carrying a gun.  Pull out your old .44 and those gang members will show their true colors.  Bunch of cowards who think nobody will fight back.

I’d like to see one of them try something on me.

I’d put one right in their bean.  Pow.

Pow. Pow. Pow.  Like John Wayne.

6- Fuck building a wall.  Just bomb Northern Mexico to glass.  Nothing will cross that desert for a hundred years.  No drugs, no illegal aliens, nothing.  Problem solved.

Goddammit, I’m leaving.  Tell Gene I will settle up when my check comes in.

I am serious.

7- Give cops more power.  The fake news media is a bunch of garbage.  All we ever hear is one side of the story.  Victims, my ass.

Well, not all of it.  Do I look like I’m made of money?  The damned government takes half my check.  Liberal bullshit, is what it is.

You don’t have to call the cops.  I’m going already.

7- Cops are a bunch of tough guy assholes.  Why should my tax dollars pay for them?  I know one guy, a friend of my cousin, he made like forty grand extra just in overtime.  Who in the hell makes forty grand in overtime?

A government worker, that’s who.  But what do they care?  They ain’t paying for it.  Bullshit.

8- Fire all government workers.  Make them get a real job for once.

Trump should hire me.  I’d straighten that shit out in about ten minutes.  Flat.

I was flipping through the channels the other day when I came upon the old television show, MASH.  Hohoho.  That Hawkeye was irrepressible.  He was also a bit of a sexual harrasser.  Then again, who wasn’t in those days?  It was like Fox News before there was such a thing as Fox News.  I suppose Robert Altman is turning over in his grave right now.  That’s the problem with dying.  You can’t defend yourself.  You just sit in whatever alternative reality there is, watching as assholes on a computer in Wisconsin associate your anti-war production with a bunch of undereducated fascists.  In your face, Bob!  You are powerless to stop the MO.  Then again, who isn’t?

Robert Altman also directed a post-apocalyptic film called Quintet.  In this film everything is cold and icy.  I guess the world is dwindling down to nothing, presumably after a nuclear war.  Perhaps art will imitate life shortly.  Po-to-weet!  But I digress.

Anyway, my favorite actor, Paul Newman, is the main character in this film.  To be honest, it isn’t the best film he has been in.  I have watched it at least four or five times and I am still a little fuzzy on the plot line.  (Hahahahaha.  Inside joke for all of you Quintet watchers.  I make myself laugh.  That is the key to happiness.)  Point being, if you only have a couple of hours, choose another Newman film.  I recommend The Verdict or The Color of Money.  Of course, you could watch Cool Hand Luke, but that is a bit depressing for most days.  “He’s the man with no eyes.”

“No one can eat fifty eggs.”

“Sometimes nothing is a real cool hand.”

Speaking of the apocalypse and North Korea, did you notice that we may be on the brink of a nuclear exchange?  I am not a scientist, but that might be bad.  On the other hand, I have been checking out Amazon.  There are all sorts of Survivalist packages out there.  They have seeds and fancy hatchets and fire starters and water purifiers.  I am strongly thinking about ordering.  Better safe than sorry I always say.  Plus, who can forget the words of the FSM:

“And loeth in the time of the fake orange came pestilence and buffoonery and a pestilence came upon the land.  And no one would stop it because the stock market riseth up and the blood of the seven-eyed monster had not yet stained the land.”

I’m not sure what that means, but it definitely sounds bad.  Oh well, everything has to end sometime.  I’m planning on a post-apocalyptic film movie marathon.  I figure I can pick up a few tips along the way.

Like always watch out for men wearing ass-less chaps.

Or Dennis Hopper.

Though Dennis Hopper was truly awesome in Hoosiers.

“Regional championship, down one, let her fly…. In and out.”

Somewhere in that quote is a metaphor for humanity.  (The Orange is much deeper than you imagine.  Unfathomable, really.)  I’d figure it out but the Jerry Springer show is on pretty soon.

I really want to know if Zach is the baby’s mama.

“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry…”

In man’s early history, there were no such things as grocery stores or Kwik Trips or church picnics.  Illegal aliens did not pick vegetables for you.  If you wanted to eat, you had to get it yourself.  This meant digging tubers and picking berries and spearing mastodons.  Occasionally, it meant killing and eating one’s fellow man.  Take my word for it, cannibalism is a hell of a lot better than trying to live off of pine needles and tree bark.  All that roughage just doesn’t sit well.  Plus, it doesn’t have much nutritional value.

Speaking of nutritional value, a scientist has calculated how many calories a human body would yield.  (The scientist was from England, so what do you expect?  The English are so eccentric.  Tea and Crumpets.)  Anyway, it turns out that an arm would supply about 1800 calories.  We are talking a prehistoric man’s arm, not some fat Packer fan’s arm.  That would supply about 12,000 calories.  And taste like beer and bacon.

Anyway, a human heart is worth approximately 750 calories which is about half of what the liver would provide.  Each leg yields 7,150 calories.  Yummm!! Check out those gams.  I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.  All told, a human male has 81,500 calories worth of food stuff.

In contrast, a horse contains more than 200,000 calories.  Then again, who would eat a horse.  Prehistoric people, I suppose.  And horse haters.  I don’t care for horses much.  They frighten me.  Thus, I would never get close enough to them to club them over the head.  If someone else did it, I might try some horse steak.  I should weave a Godfather reference in here somewhere, but I don’t have the energy.

Medium well.  At least.  In prehistoric times, there were no doctors.  A little bit of salmonella was a killer.  Though, they probably only ate people in the winter.  The cold weather made salmonella unlikely.  And if you are starving you probably aren’t going to worry about whether or not the meat is tainted.  Additionally, prehistoric man had no knowledge of microbes or any other scientific mumbo jumbo.  Prehistoric men were all Republicans.  Just skinnier.

Speaking of fat people, according to an article in the journal JAMA it seems that fewer Americans are trying to lose weight.  This is spite the fact that obesity rates are rising.

Wait a second.  In reality, these two statements are cause and effect.  Stupid JAMA.  Always get a second opinion.  Preferably from the MO.

Anyway, the CDC says that two in three Americans are obese or overweight.  That’s a lot of tonnage.  One theory is that what many people perceive as “overweight” has become a “normal weight.”  In other words, if you don’t want to lose weight, just pretend that neither you nor anyone else is fat.  Hahaha.  In your face, CDC!

If it bothers you that so many people are getting so fat, consider that it is easier to look skinny.  Moreover, the faster everyone else dies, the better chance you have of collecting on your social security.  Plus, if the world is suddenly cast into a Post-apocalyptic nightmare, fat people will be easy to run down.  And think of the caloric value!  As much as a horse and way less dangerous.  Just lure them in with a bag of donuts and clunk them on the head.  Clunk!  Ram an apple into their mouths and on the spit they go.

Suddenly, I am feeling quite hungry.  Is that weird?  I do have a little English ancestry.  Not that cannibalism has a nationality.  I wouldn’t want to unnecessarily disparage anyone’s character.

It would be quite difficult to lure people in if you had just disparaged them.

Picante sauce.

(Noise that Hannibal Lecter makes toward Clarice.)

Do you know how hard it is not to make a joke about Jody Foster?  But I must have some sort of limit on vulgarity.  I’ll tell you what.  I will put the words in random order and you can figure it out.  That makes it a puzzle.  Everybody likes puzzles.  I’ll give you a hint, too.  Jody is a lesbian.

Out.  Like. Be.  To. Eating.  All.  With.  That.  A.  Cannibal.  Be.  Jody.  Would.  Bet.  I.  Will.

Phew!  That was like Yoda telling a dirty joke.  Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmmmmm.

I wonder if Yoda eats people.  He does have jagged, meat-eating type teeth.

 

I don’t think that spiders can get scurvy, actually.  It is just a figure of speech.  Though I believe there might be some sort of fruit eating spiders out there.  After all, there are fruit eating bats, which is something you wouldn’t naturally imagine bats doing.  Bats flit and use echolocation and sometimes turn into Romanian dark lords.  But pomegranate consumption seems a bit out of character.  Anyway, I guess it is possible that a spider could get scurvy if there was, in fact, such a thing as a spider that eats fruit.  Which there probably isn’t.  Anyway, I digress even before I progress.

If you have ever watched It’s a Wonderful Life (And most people have unless their name is Alex and they don’t listen to their father even though they are teaching film class and should know the movie as it is a classic.  No matter.  Just because listening to your parent is in the Bible is no reason to do so.  Eternal damnation be damned.), you know that George Bailey calls Mr. Potter a “scurvy little spider” when he meets with him over the fate of the old Savings and Loan.  For those of you not familiar with the movie, Mr. Potter is the rich guy who has taken over almost all of the town.  He only needs to get his greedy claws on the Bailey’s business to make his takeover complete.  However, George, despite having greater aspirations, keeps working at the Savings and Loan and thwarts Mr. Potter’s nefarious capitalist scheme.  That is, until stupid Uncle Billy almost blows the whole thing.

In a nutshell, the premise is that the rich will screw over all the little guys unless some little guys stand up against them.  Moreover, there is more to life than getting rich.  Though George remains middle class- when he assuredly could have made more money if only he were more selfish- he has the satisfaction of remaining a good man.  Of course, this satisfaction is dampened enough that George makes the decision to kill himself.  But Clarence, the angel, saves him.  In the end, George is helped out by all the people he has helped out over the years.  The final message is that we are all in it together and that it is how one treats people, and not how much money a person accumulates, that makes the man.

As you can see, this movie is hopelessly outdated.  If this movie was written by Republicans today, George would see the error of his ways and shrewdly partner up with Mr. Potter.  The two of them would turn the town into factories and low income housing that most definitely is not subsidized by the government.  Well, the factories and the developments are subsidized in the form of tax breaks because George and Mr. Potter (Does Mr. Potter have a first name?  I can’t remember.  We will call him Glenn for the sake of this essay.) are job creators.  George and Glenn go on to form a multi-national conglomerate and lobby the government to put stiff tariffs on any incoming goods that would compete with their factories.  Eventually, George goes to Washington (haha, I couldn’t resist…not that I ever resist) to become the governor of New York.  Once there, he cuts welfare and social security and Medicaid so that the middle class can get a tax break.  When Glenn dies, George has a library put up in his honor.  Probably because Glenn was such a great reader of literature.

For a more progressive script, consider this.  George fights the good fight.  After the Uncle Billy debacle, George realizes that something needs to change (how much can one man take?).  Luckily, he finds out that Mary is really an heiress.  She has loads of money.  Loads.  They can finally be happy.  More importantly, George and Sam Wainwright are able to join forces.  George becomes a candidate for governor.  He runs as a conservative Democrat (he is a business owner, of course) and wins.  He puts in legislation that fucks Mr. Potter over but good.  Mr. Potter is forced to go to the Koch brothers, hat in hand.  He returns flush with cash and religion.  God tells him to run for governor against George.  But, as we know, God is already on George’s side (remember Clarence?).  On the eve of the election, Mr. Potter succumbs to a heart attack.  Thus, George has both vanquished his evil nemesis and become rich.  The American Dream!  And Jesus approved.

In both scenarios, Uncle Billy dies a destitute, broken man.  I think that no matter what side of the aisle you stand on, you can agree that this is for the best.

Also, the movie ends with George visiting the pharmacist, Mr. Gower, in the nursing home.  George tells him thank you for everything George was able to learn at the pharmacy.

Then he slaps the old man in the ear.  And throws his mashed peas on the floor.

George looks into the camera.  His eyes are dark and menacing.  “Nobody pushes George Bailey around.  No one.”

Fade to black.

I was watching a couple of robins this morning.  They flitted to and fro, pecked at the ground a bit, and then flew back to a branch.  All in all, it was pretty bird-like behavior.  Robins are unremarkable birds.  I wouldn’t call them ugly, but I certainly wouldn’t describe them as beautiful, either.  Maybe a 6 on the bird scale.  And that is being gracious in case anyone is really into robins.  I hate offending bird watchers.  They take it very personally.  Even so, there is nothing special about robins.

Of course, some would disagree.  This disagreement is based almost solely on the fact that robins are seen as the symbols of spring.  I have always marveled at this designation.  Spring almost never comes with the robins.  They show up and then it snows.  And snows some more.  And then it is cold and rainy for a while.  Robins, who are largely dependent on worms for nutrition, often starve as they wait for the ground to thaw enough for the worms to come out.  The fact that robins are the state bird of Wisconsin only makes things worse.  It is a black eye for the entire state.

After all, robins are plain dumb.  Why in the hell would you leave a place that is warm and has food?  To be the first one here?  Congratulations.  Now you are eating barely digestible seeds left over from last fall.  Yummy.  If you were going to do that, you should have at least stayed over the winter and died a soldier’s death.  The truth is that robins are inferior.

Alas, life is about perception.  Commanding the narrative.  Faking it until you make it.  Robins are to the bird world what the wanna-be upperwardly mobile couple with a too big mortgage is to the human world.  These couples have a giant house and two new cars and no hope other than Aunt Esther dying and leaving them enough to make it through the next two years.  Sometimes Aunt Esther dies, sometimes she rallies.  And then these people are forced into bankruptcy or hitting up their wealthy parents for some cash (Kind of like when the damn robins eat under my feeder.  That’s not for you, you red-breasted freeloader.  Go back to Mexico!  Or at least Missouri.)

You know, you don’t hear the word “yuppie” very often anymore.  It’s just an observation.

Speaking of observations, the damned robin is sitting right in the tree across from my window.  Why?  What are you doing?  They always have that same damn look on their face.  I believe it would be best described as utter stupidity.  Go away!  It’s twenty degrees outside.  Idiot bird.  Perhaps I will have to scoop its starved, frozen carcass from my lawn.  Hahahahaha.  Into the cold, dark hole you go.

But justice is seldom served in this life.  Robins, flamboyant and ridiculous are celebrated.  Meanwhile, chickadees, hard working, decent birds, become an afterthought.

They should change their call.  Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, eff you, eff you.

I wouldn’t blame them a bit.

 

 

I was just out shoveling.  This was because we received fourteen inches of new snow.  It was a disappointing event, particularly because all of the snow from earlier in the winter had just melted off.  Cruel, cruel world.  Personally, I blame Donald Trump.  The snowfall was the FSM’s punishment for not building the wall fast enough.  Of course, if this were true it should have snowed in Mexico as they are the ones who need to pay for the wall.  I know that I have no interest in doing so.  I need money for beer and baubles.  Plus, my furnace is making a funny noise.  It sounds like there is something wrong with the blower.  Then again, I am not a licensed HVAC guy.  On the other hand, I like stating my opinion even if I don’t know what I am talking about.  This is America.

Speaking of America, I see that we are last in life expectancy among first world countries.  Apparently, obesity and lethargy aren’t good strategies for long life.  Who knew?  Scientists, I guess.  Maybe if we just fired all of them then we would live longer.  At least we could just make them shut up about it.  It is working for climate change.  Look outside if you don’t believe me.  Snow as far as the eye can see.  The snowbank in my yard is literally seven feet high.  Does that sound like global warming to you?  Because it sure doesn’t to me.

Speaking of snowbanks, I am just about to the point where I have nowhere else to put the snow.  One more snow event and we will be walled away from society.  While you might find this possibility depressing, you do not possess the creative mind of the MO.  If you did, you would be writing your own witty and insightful blog.  Little Boy Blue’s Banana.  On second thought, maybe not that one.  There are a lot of people in the world who see innuendo everywhere.  Mostly Communists.

But I digress.  What I was talking about was what to do with the snow.  After all, it is going to be quite some time before this snow melts.  Until then, it just sits around, doing nothing and getting dirty, hoping that more snow will fall from the sky.  March is just as depressing for snowbanks as it is for you.  It’s tough knowing the end is near.  And snowbanks don’t have heaven like you do.  Or 77 virgins.  They melt and that is pretty much it.  But not if I have my way.

You see, I propose that we set up a Maginot line of old refrigerators along the Mexican border (It makes sense as Mexico used to be ruled by the French.  Watch Two Mules for Sister Sara if you don’t believe me.  You can learn a lot from Clint Eastwood films.  For example, orangutans are really smart.  And Sonda Locke is a horrible actress.  Like Jennifer Lopez bad, without the looks.  Yipes!).  Anyway, you might argue that old refrigerators can be moved pretty easily by enterprising Mexican banditos.

But not if they are filled with snow.  

Do you see the genius of it?  We get rid of snow and place it in the way of Mexicans who, by their very nature, are repulsed by snow.  It is kind of like filling refrigerators full of garlic to keep vampires from the border (Note that Dracula was an illegal immigrant.  From a Communist country, no less.  We speak English here, Dracula.  Not Transylvanian.)  Yes, I know Transylvanians speak Romanian.  Pay attention for once.

These refrigerators could be run off a large coal burning generator.  This solves another problem.  Appalachian joblessness.  After all, we will need a lot of coal to keep those refrigerators cold and full of Mexican repelling snow.  I care about toothless hillbillies at least as much as the next guy.  Speaking of EPA avoidance, old refrigerators are full of stuff that the Liberals don’t want in the water.  Put them in the wall and no one can see anything.  Freon leaks, like freedom, isn’t free.

I just realized that last sentence doesn’t make much sense.  Or does it make sense and it only doesn’t seem to because of the lying media?  Probably that.  Regardless, I have solved our immigration problem, the old refrigerator disposal problem, and West Virginia’s job problem all in one fell swoop.  Plus, the next time somebody tells you there is global warming, you just point your finger to the South and ask them about all that snow on the border.

Explain that one away, eggheads.

It is true of life that everything is about perspective.  If you are a billionaire, tepid eggs are cause for a shit fit.  Give these same eggs to starving refugees and they become a cause for celebration.  This truth becomes especially true in affairs of the toilet.  With toilets – and with deference to those 80’s rock icons, Poison– “you don’t know what you got, till it’s gone.”  In this instance, the thing that was gone was the ability of the downstairs toilet to flush.

You see, my oldest stepson does not completely understand the correlation between the amount of toilet paper one uses with the toilet’s (or more specifically the pipe’s) ability to process said toilet paper.  If I sound agitated, this is not the first time the downstairs toilet has been plugged.  The last time was, too put it literally, a veritable shit storm that went on for hours before reconciliation.  After this traumatic episode, I made my stepson promise me to consider the volume of toilet paper he used in the future.  But promises, like the bones of the osteoporotic, are often broken.

“My toilet’s plugged again.”  Words of doom.  Yet, I remained calm.  As I always do.  Surely, this plugging would be of the garden variety kind.  Just a few plunges and the stoppered up water would gain sweet release.

“Let’s see what you have,” I said jovially.  The toilet was indeed plugged.  I instructed my stepson to get the plunger.  He could do the plunging as he had done the plugging.  It would be a good life lesson and all that.  Perhaps next time he would think on it a little more before blithely dispensing toilet paper.

Fifteen minutes passed and there was no progress.  I wanted the lad to struggle, but there is one immutable fact about a plugged toilet.  He who owns it must ensure its freedom.  Reluctantly, I took the plunger from the lad’s hands and started in.  An hour later- and after several very unpleasant bailings- the toilet was still plugged.  I tried to snake it out, I tried vinegar and baking soda, Drano.  No dice.  I did a short dance and gave a salt offering to Porcelis, goddess of all water closets.

In frustration, I poured a bunch of Drano into the toilet and cordoned it off until morning.  Perhaps a good soaking would do the trick.  Plus, how long could the obstruction last without dissolving?

The answer was at least nine hours.  More Drano and more waiting.  With everyone out of the house, I once again began my quest to restore the toilet’s freedom.  I plunged and plunged and screamed the F word.  Neither plunging nor swearing had any effect.  Though the swearing did make me feel better, as it often does.

Eventually, the toilet came unplugged.  I poured scalding hot water into the bowl, which increased the suction of the plunger sufficiently to free the obstruction.  Physics, you know.  When the water finally, incredibly, went down the drain, I did a victory dance and gave a primal scream.  For there is nothing in life better than unplugging the unpluggable.

Nothing at all.

 

 

There is an old adage that says there is no such thing as a dumb question.  Of course, this adage, like many old adages, is mostly nonsense.  There are many dumb questions.  Should I hit myself in the face with a hammer?  This ice is thick enough, isn’t it?  How many licks does it take to get the center of this lollipop?  Can Batman really fight with Superman?  (No.  Superman can turn the Earth backward and see through people’s clothing.  Batman has a suspicious relationship with his “ward.”)

Anyway, I had an intelligent question the other day and so I did an Internet search (it was related to my wife’s Iphone for all of you snickering children out there).  Upon making my search, a list of other popular Internet searches came up on my screen.  Hot Searches, if you will.  The list was varied and disturbing.  For example, one search was “what to do if a student comes to class wearing such revealing clothing that it disrupts the learning environment.”  Granted, this is a conundrum.  But not one I am interested in, mostly because the weather in this state limits this possibility.  It is a Southern matter and I am a Yankee and should stay out of Southern business.  The last thing we need is another Civil War.

Another question, and quite a popular one, is “how powerful would the church become if demons regularly visited earth?”  (I am not making this up.)  At first, I thought this question a joke until I took a peek at the responses.  Let’s just say that people are very concerned about demon visitation.  Like really, really concerned.  This started to make me very concerned.

What I really want to know is who asked this question in the first place?  Was it a demon?  Obviously, demons want to visit Earth.  But there can be too much of a good thing.  If they visit too much, there is a risk that humans will respond by going to church in greater numbers.  This could result in a veritable pogrom against demons.  Exorcism for everyone!  Hallelujah.  Of course, the possessed would have to pay for these exorcisms which would fill the coffers of the church.  They could then give this money to politicians in order to gain influence over the decisions of government.

A second scenario is that the church wants to falsely inflate the number of visiting demons.  After all, church attendance has been dwindling for quite some time now.  And, without a terrible menace to instill fear in the masses, attendance is sure to continue to dwindle.  What would be more menacing than potential demonic possession?  Other than socialism.

I’ll answer for you.  Nothing.  Make the people need a savior again.  It is a good plan, especially because it is rather difficult to argue against a rise in demonic presence.  You can’t see them and any abberational act is up to interpretation.  Say your child throws a fit and won’t eat her dinner.  She is possessed by demons!

Click.  That is one.  Your wife says she won’t be cooking dinner every night any more.  Possessed by one of Satan’s Minions!!!  Marching in the women’s protest?  Deviltry!

Language too uppity?  I’ve never heard anyone speak like that.  It could only be the work of a demon.  Who else uses the word “obsequious” in a sentence?  I think that is Latin.  I cast thee out in the name of Jesus Christ!

As you can see, the tally can grow quickly.

I just Googled the top Internet searches from yesterday.

Number one- Superbowl 51.  Number two- Doomsday Clock.  Number three- Shia LaBeouf.

Shia LaBeouf?  Isn’t he the guy that ruined the Indiana Jones franchise?  Yes, he is.

I guess this means the we get to watch the Superbowl before the Apocalypse.  That’s something.  Go Falcons.

Bill Belichick is an instrument of the devil.