Mental Bric-a-Brac

I don’t have fully formed thoughts anymore, which is why I rarely post. But, I think I’ll post my mental fragments from time to time. It’s best if you don’t try to find a pattern or logical thread to any of this.

I find it ironic that at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings the very first thing you do is stand up and give everyone your name.

 

I question the efficiency of crop dusting.

Farmer: Bugs are killing me this year. I need to get some poison put out.

Tractor driver: I can lay down a uniform application of pesticide from one foot above the plants guaranteeing about 98% coverage.

Crop duster: I’ll buzz your field doing about 200mph. I’ll be letting these chemicals out anywhere from 60 ft to 3 inches above the ground. I ain’t guaranteeing nothing.

Farmer: Well, get to it, Fly Boy!

 

I think the black rioters in Baltimore should claim they’re rioting because the Orioles won/lost (it doesn’t matter) a baseball game. Then the media would treat them like white rioters, which is to say, the coverage would appear one time and at the end of a whacky segment about the water skiing squirrel and the Virgin Mary appearing on a McMuffin in Lima, Peru.

 

Internet news headline writers should be jailed unless they agree to quit telling us:

1. The 8 Ways You’re Eating That Banana Wrong

2. 14 Things You Don’t Know About The Sitcom Frasier But Should

3. [Insert celebrity name] Doesn’t Look Like This Anymore!

Sincere But Ignorant Facebook Post

On this the 14th anniversary of the Japanese bombing of Pearl Street, I want to wish all our vets a good day. As Teddy Roosevelt said, “This day shall live in infancy.” Wise words from our 62nd president. To think he said such wise things from that scooter because he was suffering from concussions he got from playing football at the University of Illinois-Urbana. Or Harvard, I can’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. He was a great man. He reminds me of that other great president of his time Benjamin Franklin, who also discovered energy. I wish we had good Christian leaders like those two nowadays.

Please share if you love Jesus. If not, your grandfather will get gang raped by Ebola people just like God would want.

Fun With Captions

Throughout my workday, I’ve been thinking about this picture. Here are my proposed captions. What are yours?

1. “Wwweeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

2. “Open ‘er up. Let’s see what this beast can do!”

3. “I double dog dare you.” “Oh, well, if you double dog dare me…I’m such an idiot.”

4. “At Lincoln, hang a left. I’m the third woodpile on the right. Thanks a bunch.”

5. The first lizard mechanic. “At this straightaway, really unwind ‘er. Let’s see if we got that shimmy out.”

6. “The fly I’m after landed on that white Yukon. Dammit, man. Will this thing go no faster?”

7. “Look how far I’m throwing this truck!”

8. “You just worry about the road. I’m fine. Gah. Stupid suckerless-footed humans.”

9. “No, you’re doing great for a first time driver. Do me a favor though. Don’t ride the middle line. I’m a little vulnerable out here.”

10. “Hey, I’m only late one payment. Roll the window down, Mr. Tough Repo Guy!”

Fun With The Sensitivities Of Others

Working late on a Sunday is simply wrong — unless you have the night shift on a Sunday that is. When I have to suffer the injustice of working late, on a weekend, for the 12th weekend in a row, I get a little peevish. I used to turn into an a-hole. Now, though, I just want to start a little trouble.

Here are the things I’ve wanted to put on Facebook, but decided not to. I don’t necessarily believe any of the things below, but it would sure be fun to see the reactions they got.

1. Forget Margaret Thatcher. What about Hugo Chavez?

2. Mad Men sucks and people who like it are stupid.

3. I don’t give a shit how much you love God and, frankly, He doesn’t either.

4. I bet Jesus gets sick of being compared to butterfly wings and other pansy crap. I bet He would like to read, “Jesus. Now that sum-bitch had it going on.”

5. I’m going to buy one of your macraméd Bible-verse hand towels just to wipe my ass with.

6. We need a 100% black president. This one has too much honky in him.

7. About 90% of you are older Honey Boo Boos and you don’t even know it.

8. That new haircut doesn’t hide those 145 extra pounds you’re packing.

9. Click “Like” if you agree that we should ban all guns, not just assault weapons.

10. Ronald Reagan was an idiot and a terrible president.

11. Wow! Your teenage daughter looks like a bigger whore than you were at that age. I didn’t think that was possible. What’s her cell number?

12. Next time you feel like posting a picture of what you’re eating take the fork and jab it into your neck instead.

13. I think it’s great you let your kid with Down Syndrome play t-ball. Oh, he’s not retarded?

An Inspired Story About The Inspired Word Of God

Thanks to Travellinbaen for letting me publish the post below on his most interesting site called Missing The Ground.

Mac’s discussion on belief, science, and religion in general got me to thinking about the Bible. Here in the Belt Buckle of the Bible Belt, you can walk out your front door and, within half a block, find someone who believes that the Bible is the inerrant word of God.

Most of these folks know that the Bible is not one book, but rather a collection of 66 books. Some of those folks will know that the 66 books were written over a period of about 1600 years. A much smaller subset of those folks will know the complex process by which the Bible came to be the Bible. But if more knew about that process and the disagreement that still exists, they might not take a stance that can only be described as Bible worship – acting as if the Bible itself were God, which breaks the very first commandment.

Imagine the scene. It’s 1547, one year after the Council of Trent (Catholic Church) has announced, “By God, these are the real books of the Bible and not what you Protestants say are the real books of the Bible. And we’re inspired by God in making these choices and you Protestants aren’t.” (See the problem already?)

It’s a small village outside the city of Mainz in what is now Germany. A Lutheran (Protestant) minister walks up to a peasant laboring in the field.

“Pardon me, sir, I’m Pastor Heinrich, a Lutheran minister. How are you this fine day?”

The peasant looks up from his plowing. “Fine. Well, other than the fact that I’m bound to this land for the duration of my natural life.” (Despite their German nationality, these characters talk like something from Monty Python.)

“I won’t keep you from your work. I just wanted to ask you if you have accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior. So, have you?”

“No, sir. My Lord and Savior is right over there. You see the tree branch that’s a little crooked but then points straight up to the heavens? That’s my Lord.”

“A tree branch? You mean to say you worship a stick?”

“Yes, sir. I read about it in an ancient writing that a traveler brought to me. The text says, ‘Behold the tree branch that pointeth toward me, which is to say, upward, toward the sky; definitely not down toward the ground. It’ll probably be on an elm, but maybe an oak – most assuredly on a deciduous tree. That much I know for sure. And everything written here is true. Oh, and I don’t mean to be such a bother, but if you don’t believe this writing, you’ll burn in a lake of fire suffering unimaginable pain for all of eternity. Now that we have that out of the way, I love you and you need to love others. And keep watch for the upward pointing stick…on an elm, or maybe an oak.’

When I read that passage, I knew this particular tree branch was the living incarnation of God.”

“Pointeth? Your ancient text uses the language of the King James Bible?”

“Well, sir, the King James Bible won’t be written for at least another 50 years from now, but I understand that for purposes of this ridiculous skit, the man pecking out our words on a keyboard is more interested in humor than being factually correct.”

“Quite right, but surely you don’t believe in a stick?”

“Why shouldn’t I? It was written down in an old scroll. Very authoritative looking.”

“What’s the name of this old scroll?

“The Book of Rick.”

“The Book of Rick? What a pathetic, unimaginative name.”

“Well, how do you know your Bible is real then?”

“Because it says so in the Book of John.”

“The Book of John? That’s a quite common name now, isn’t it? I don’t know why I should believe a John, but not a Rick.”

“Stop quibbling. This Bible is the inerrant word of God.”

“Dear Learned Minister, you see nothing circular about asserting the truth of a book because the book says it’s true? If I went on that assumption, I’d be worshipping that tree branch as well as your Jesus Christ and some guy named Allah. And who’s got time to do all that worshipping? A man would be up all night trying to work a full day and then get in some worshipping to all those folks.”

The peasant continues, “And when you say ‘this Bible,’ are you talking about the one with the books with those weird names like Esdras and Maccabee?”

“Oh, heavens, no. Those books are not holy and inspired like, say, Obadiah and Malachi.”

“But the Catholic Church says they are inspired. And the Catholic Church uses them.”

“Yeah, well, what do they know? The great giant Martin Luther judged those books to be inadequate.”

“But they were in the Bible for centuries. Why would your God allow people to read those books for centuries believing them to be part of the Holy Word only to have them chunked out by this Luther fellow?”

“You sure seem to know a lot for a 16th century feudal peasant.”

“Feudalism ended about 100 years ago.”

“But you’re still working your poor body to death and living in a hovel. Worshipping a tree branch to boot. What’s the difference?”

“Ah, now I’m no longer a glorified slave. Now I’m a small business. I’m told that if I work hard and don’t cause trouble, great wealth will trickle down to me.”

A Word About Famine

Facebook Ideas

Let’s face it. The majority of the status updates on Facebook are downright boring (except yours, of course).

We need to help these folks come up with some better stuff. I mean, why should we suffer?

Because I like helping people out, because I’m a good guy like that, I give you the following Facebook statuses. Use them as you see fit.

1. Well, another day of being a raging alcoholic.

2. Whose kid is this?

3. Dang, my neighbor is touchy about sharing his grill without prior approval.

4. Quick: are we in the city or county? I don’t think these guys knocking on my door have jurisdiction.

5. So apparently drying moderately stained grippers out on the line is against the homeowners covenants.

6. Hollering at the guard at the drunk tank won’t help. You got to bang on the door.

7. I now know what incontinent means.

8. Anyone hiring? The mannequin at my desk didn’t fool nobody.

Incomplete Idiot Enters Race For Mayor

At one time or another, we’ve all either called someone a “complete idiot” or been called one. Well, Herman Grange of Isola, Mississippi wants you to know he’s not a complete idiot.

“I can name the original cast members of Green Acres in less than 5 seconds,” Mr. Grange says with a chuckle and not a little pride. “So, I guess I ain’t a complete idiot. Maybe an incomplete one.”

On Monday, shortly after Mr. Grange filed his qualifying papers to run in the special election for mayor, we sat down with the candidate. Below are excerpts from the interview.

“Have you ever held political office before?”

“No, sir. I am what they call an unknown.” He uses air quotes for the word “unknown.”

“What are some of the things you’re doing to gain name recognition?”

“Well, one thing is I submitted my name to the sex offender registry.”

“Have you committed a sex crime? Do you think you stand a chance of winning with a criminal background?”

“Aw naw. I’ve never been convicted of anything. I just did it to get my name out there. Once I’m on the registry, they’ll have to put those yard signs up in everyone’s yard and people will see my name.”

“Mr. Grange, they don’t put “sex offender” signs up in everyone’s yard. Just yours.”

“Oh. Well, that ain’t going to work at all.”

“No. People will just think you’re a child molester.”

“Huh. This politickin’ is harder than I thought.”

Asked about Mr. Grange’s candidacy, Interim Mayor Hezekiah Williams said, “Frankly, I didn’t know we had mayoral elections. This town is so small, I thought we just took turns. But, I reckon, he’ll be as good as anyone else.”

Running Errands

Below is a transcript of my thoughts as I bought groceries and then gas.

At the grocery store:

This is a great. Just a couple more things and I’ll be done. Excuse me, dear lady, I’ll be wrapping up a couple of these apples as I begin the launch of the New Me. The slim, fit New Me. New Me likes apples.

Why is she staring at my basket? Did something weird make its way into my basket? Water, Diet Coke, chips. There’s nothing weird there. Why is she still staring? That’s just downright rude. How would you like it if I stared at your basket? Let’s see. (I start staring at her basket.)

Crap, she can’t see me staring at her basket because she’s too busy staring at my basket. Lady, don’t give me the sad look. I don’t have a sad basket. If there was nothing in there but booze, lotion, and the latest Teen Beat that would be sad. And scary. I would never buy that combination of things. I’m moving over to the plums and get away from this lady.

Plums, plums, plums, I like plums. Oooo, there’s a weird looking guy. I wonder what his story is. He’s only buying peanuts. Freak!

Damn, there’s another lady staring at my basket. Jeez, do I have newly-divorced guy written on the side of the basket? Did I get a different looking basket from everyone else? If so, that’s discrimination. I AM NOT A FAILURE! Why aren’t you looking at that weird guy buying peanuts? I got to get out of here.

At the gas station:

Oh great, there’s a guy buying gas on the other side of the pump. Now we’ll have to stand here while the pumps are going facing off like a couple of middle-aged gunslingers. There’s nothing you can do to make this situation less uncomfortable.

No hope of small talk here.

“Gas sure is expensive.”

“No shit, asshole. It has been for about 3 years now.”

Or

“Sure is nice weather now that the heat and humidity are gone, huh?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not gay.”

“What?!”

Yeah, I’ll just keep my trap shut and stand here with my sunglasses on pumping gas. God, we look like out-of-shape secret service guys.

Recipe For A Spy Novel

Previously, I wrote about the worn out, but necessary, elements for a best-selling crime novel. Now I’m reading an international spy novel. I have no idea why; these things are so predictable.

The hero is always a former CIA, Secret Service, Seal, or Ranger named something horrible like Dirk Logan. As soon as you get to the main character’s name, you think, “Is this porn?”

Of course, the hero is smart, athletic, and can kill you in 20 different ways. You use a coffee filter to make a morning cup of joe, Dirk Logan uses it to navigate an Ebola field and defuse a nuclear bomb attached to the President’s scrotum. Boring.

I want to read this about our protagonist: “Homer Pips was a fat, stupid, lazy piece of shit. When he wasn’t jacking off to discarded Us magazines he snatched from the dumpster behind the local pharmacy, he was mulling around town under the pretense of being a deputy sheriff.

Until today, his greatest law enforcement achievement had been to break up Granger Forest’s still (and that was only because it was competing against his own still). But today, Al Qaeda’s newly minted leader Abdul Mohammed Abdul Mohammed Mohammed…Abdul would decide to pay a visit to quaint little Sim’s Holler, North Carolina.”

And instead of fate throwing the hero together with a supermodel turned research physicist, we should have this: “Myrtle Peacock graduated high school with the coveted title of Most Likely To Make A Man Gay. Many of her classmates described her as “slow,” but mainly she was stupid.

Myrtle was terribly shy and when asked a question, she would inexplicably end her answer by muttering in a high pitched voice that trailed down to a mutter, “Hiba diba fing fing.” It was the strangest thing anyone had ever seen. Her classmates often paid strangers to ask Myrtle questions just to lay witness to Myrtle’s inexplicable Turret’s-like outbursts.

“Hi there. Could you point me to the Sav-a-Lot department store?”

“Uh, uh, sure mister. It’s up Elm Street right past the gas station. Hiiiiba diba fing fing.”

And then Myrtle would give her head a shake and violently clear her throat as if her nonsensical phrase had merely been something in need of dislodging and that it would be all eloquence from here on out. But it never was.

“Do you mean the Shell station or the Exxon?”

“Ahem. I mean the Shell. Hiiiiba diba fing fing.”

Now, those are characters I want to read about. When Homer and Myrtle get to be the heroes, I’ll buy your book.