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 Tales from real life |
| Well, if they're not true, they oughta be! |
This entry was inspired by a newsfeed post from Adherennium  Basic Theory All written material begins in a ground state defined by comic scientists as 'not-funny'. A spark of creativity may add enough comic energy to elevate material to an initial quantum level of 'funny'. This process is not guaranteed, however, and insufficient creativity will cause the material to spontaneously fall back to the not-funny state. A further infusion of comic energy, known as 'delivery', is required to elevate material from the funny state to the higher quantum comedy states of 'joke', 'mirth' or 'hilarity'. The removal of comic energy is achieved by a process called 'poor delivery'. Poor delivery can cause material to fall back all the way from hilarity to not-funny. Superposition A more advanced concept concerns the duality of the unexamined joke. Comedy particles known as bits exist in an undetermined superposition of funny/not-funny until analyzed by an objecting audience. The act of measurement, however, drains the comic energy and collapses the joke to its original not-funny state. This is known as the principle of explanation. Quantum Tunneling Tunneling is perhaps the strangest concept of quantum comedy. An effect known as the 'non sequitur' can warp the laugh-time continuum and transport comedy bits directly to a state of hilarity along a vector known as the 'punch line'. No one really understands the mechanism of the non sequitur, and its end point seems to be wholly random. The path of a non sequitur is difficult to predict and often loops back to the not-funny state. Dark Matter And, of course, no discussion of quantum comedy would be complete without the dark material known as the 'pun'. Comic scientists estimate that as much as 90% of the comedy universe is made up of this dark material. Real comedy does not recognize or interact with the pun in any way. However, the influence of the pun on normal life can be inferred through the groan effect. from wackypedia . . . |
| The list goes ever on . . . Elements of Destruction by Anne T. Madder Barbershop Snippets by Hank O'Hare Notes at the Window by Sara Nader Kiss the Moon by Myra B. Hynde Creating a Lush Landscape by Leif E. Busch Home Canning by Mason Jarre The Official Officiants Handbook by Marion Mann The Monkey's Uncle by Harry Gibbons The Big Book of Landfill by D. Bree Pyle Touch of Shock by A. Tesla-Coyle Proper Portraiture Display by Wally Hooks Coping With Diarrhea by Louis Bowles See also: "The Bottom Shelf?"  See also: "Yet More Books I'd Like to See" |
My sister sent a pretty picture of her Montana snowdrifts today. I'm happy to miss out on them, and also the 30 below temperatures! (Minus 30's in Celsius, also.) The snowdrifts bring back childhood memories from when my dad delivered the mail on our rural route. He took the 'neither rain nor snow' slogan seriously and almost never missed a day in his 20-year career. One winter morning, we woke to 4-foot drifts and no school bus. Dad said no problem, we could just ride into town with him. We tried to get out of it, but Mom said go. So, we bundled up to brave the icy trek to school instead of relaxing with comics and hot cocoa. A mile of unplowed, uphill gravel road separated us from the highway. Some stretches were swept bare by the frigid wind, but there were also some deep drifts. Dad got up to ramming speed and busted through a couple of the smaller drifts, but he was stymied by a 4-footer about a quarter mile short of the pavement. There was far too much snow to shovel, so he had to turn back. But that didn't mean giving up. The roads in the area are laid out in a grid along section lines, so dad tried again a mile further west. That road is more level, except for one steep hill. Dad took a run at it, but it was too slick, and the car slid sideways against the snow piled up at the edge of the road. This time we were really stuck. Or were we? Dad told us kids to get out and push, but sideways, not forward. We all pushed on the front fender of the car to spin it around. The road was pure ice, dad wiggled the steering wheel, and the front tires slowly slid in a 180-degree arc. We went another mile west, dad found an open roadway, and we finally made it onto plowed pavement. From there it was a relatively easy trip to school and on to the post office. We found that school was canceled and the kids from town had been sent home. It was too late to do us any good, however, we had to wait for dad to come back in the afternoon. A few other kids were in a similar predicament, so we all had a day-long study hall in the Junior High building. A dozen bored students of various ages and one annoyed teacher who had to babysit made for a long day. At least the trip home was downhill. Author's note: ▼ |
Q: Where does a six-foot ten former pro basketball player sit? A: Anywhere he wants to! I was working at the Allen-Bradley sales office in Bellevue, Washington when I met Tom Black. He had a brief career in the NBA, playing for the Seattle Supersonics during the 1970-71 season. Tom passed away in 2017. I didn't know him well, but I'll always remember his oversized presence. Now owned by Rockwell Automation, Allen-Bradley is an industrial company that began making electrical components in 1903. Their products include switches, relays, and factory automation equipment. I worked there from 1984 to 1986 as a product applications engineer. In 1985, Allen-Bradley purchased a small company that made barcode scanners. I've forgotten the name of that company, but their Seattle area sales rep, Tom Black, was part of the deal. Of course, corporate didn't bother to tell us. We were a small office at the time, with only a half dozen employees, and our receptionist was at lunch when Tom showed up. He was carrying a cardboard box of sales brochures and desk supplies. I was closest to the front door, so I greeted this imposing figure with more than a little curiosity as to what he might be selling. "Hello, can I help you?" "Yeah," he smiled, setting the box down and offering a hand the size of a catcher's mitt. "I'm Tom Black and I work here. Where should I put my things?" I looked him straight in the sternum and said, "um, okay, sure." I led him back to an empty desk where he explained the situation while moving his things in. We laughed about the lack of communication from above and our office manager repeated my slack-jawed performance when he noticed the tall, dark stranger in town. Corporate hadn't informed him, either. I enjoyed Tom's company around the office, and I always marveled at his sheer size. We had cubicle furniture with five-foot high walls, just about eye level for me. One day, I saw Tom collating copies on the top of his cubicle shelf. What was eye-level for me was a handy work surface for him. Another time, we were enjoying a beer after hours and commiserating about receding hairlines and expanding waistlines. We each had our own sad tale about being out of shape. Tom joined in with his own unique take. "Yeah, it's tough alright," he agreed. "When I got out of pro ball, I swore I'd never let myself get over three hundred pounds. But damn it, here I am." |
Have you ever seen the sun set in the east? It may sound strange, but it was a regular occurrence for my Montana family during the spring and fall. I grew up on a small ranch about twenty miles west of the Mission Mountains. The Mission range is part of the Rockies, with peaks that reach up more than 9000 feet. Their name comes from the Jesuit mission church that was established in 1854 to minister to the local native population. The church still stands and draws numerous visitors to the town of St. Ignatius, especially in the summer months. The Missions rise abruptly from a glacier-scoured valley, looming more than 6000 feet over the farms and ranches below. Their peaks cast prodigious shadows to the west when backlit by the rising sun, shadows that reach across the entire valley. We didn't notice those shadows during the summer when the sun rises before 6 am or in the depths of winter when it doesn't rise until after 8. But at either equinox, the sun would rise just as we completed breakfast and set out for school and work. At those times of the year, I rose in pre-dawn dimness, but I could see sunlight on the low hills to the west as I went about morning chores. The sun would come up over the mountains by the time we finished breakfast and got into the car. My dad had a half-day job delivering the mail on our rural route. He headed off to the Post Office at about the same time us kids needed to be at school. Most of the time we'd ride into town with him rather than rattle around the countryside in the school bus. Another thing about the equinox is that the sun rises directly in the east. And the 8-mile highway into town is laid out along a perfectly straight east-west line. The sun, hanging just above the mountain peaks, would glare into the windshield at an angle that made the visors nearly useless. Dad would put his hand up in front of his eyes and squint through his fingers until we drove into the shadow of the mountains. Yep, the sun would appear to go down in the east as we drove into the shadows toward town. And then it would rise again, a few minutes after we got to school. This phenomenon can be observed by anyone who lives west of tall mountains. And I'm sure it works in reverse at sunset for those who live to the east. They can drive east out of the shadows, see the sun rise in the west behind them, and then stop to watch it set for a second time. |
| I was just sixteen when my older sister, Linda, got married. She and Greg Connor had a cozy wedding at the Missionary Alliance church in Ronan, Montana. It was a nice ceremony, and I served as usher and chauffeur for the happy couple. Afterward, I drove them to the Round Butte Woman’s Club for the reception party. The clubhouse was a small place out in the country, only a mile and a quarter from my parents’ house. I felt so important and grown up that I didn’t even sneak a peek at the rear-view mirror. Greg’s family was from Minnesota, and they were pretty strait-laced. His younger siblings were half expecting to arrive by dusty stagecoach with wild Indians in hot pursuit. The real Montana was a bit tame and disappointing for them, at least until the reception party got up to full speed. There were two punch bowls, one for kids and maiden aunts, and another that was spiked for the adults. Mom kept things in check for a while, but the adult’s bowl got ‘punched up’ until it was pretty strong. There was music from a portable record player and the Fisher side of the crowd got louder and more rambunctious as the night wore on. There may even have been dancing. Greg and Linda’s friends joined in, and the Connor family found themselves in a very small sober minority. I’d had an occasional sip of beer while growing up on the ranch, and as a kid, I didn’t like the taste. I’d never even been close to drunk. But at sixteen, I was ready to show off my maturity and party hearty. The punch was a mixture of juice, soda, and rum with chunks of fruit blended in. It tasted a lot better than beer and went down easily. I snuck a few glasses from the adult bowl and already felt a bit tipsy by the time Dad broke out the hard stuff. He was happily celebrating his daughter’s wedding, and already pretty drunk, when he surprised me by declaring that I was, “by God, old enough to drink like a man.” I wasn’t about to argue, so I choked down some Black Velvet whiskey mixed with Squirt soda. It didn’t taste all that great, so I gulped it quickly. That was a mistake because Dad wouldn’t allow my glass to stay empty. Things got blurry in a hurry. The next thing I remember is getting in the car to go home. It was only a quarter mile up a slight hill, a left turn onto a mile of gravel road, and then another left into our driveway. Dad insisted that he was perfectly okay to drive, exclaiming over and over, “I can drive right around the corner!” Every time he said it, I echoed him, and we laughed like a couple of loons. I guess the idea of driving ‘right’ around a left-hand turn was hilarious. At least for a couple of drunks. My sister Marcia was in the back seat. She says it was a scary ride as we wobbled from one side of the road to the other. Dad made a big, sweeping arc and took that first corner at about 10 mph. It might have been scarier at a higher speed, but at least the slow pace made Marcia’s terror last longer. Dad proved that he could navigate ‘right around the corner’ but he probably drove an extra quarter mile with all the weaving back and forth. We eventually got home without accident, followed by uncle Roy and my cousin Joe. The whiskey was long gone, but Dad found a bottle of vodka. We continued the party for a little while without any ice or mixer. We swilled warm vodka from a water glass. The memory still makes my stomach churn. Dad soon decided to take a nap, “just for a few minutes.” Uncle Roy tried to keep the party going, and periodically sent Marcia to wake Dad. She didn’t have any success, and at some point, I passed out too. I don’t remember undressing, but the missing buttons on my shirt the next morning were mute evidence of my state of mind. Roy and Joe stayed on until the vodka ran out. Milk cows must be milked, so Dad had to get up the next morning. He also rousted me out to do my chores. A hangover wasn’t unusual for him, but it was a new experience for me. I was fairly certain that I was going to die. And it would have been a blessed relief if I had. I woke covered in my own vomit, congealed but still sticky. The sour stench of rejected fruit punch and vodka was nauseating. As were the half-digested fruit chunks. Words can’t describe that sick, disgusting feeling. Or the debilitating pain that pounded between my temples and twisted my gut into knots. I dry heaved several times as I shuffled slowly through the morning routine, unable to even stand up straight. I was so sick that I didn’t drink again for a full year. I’d like to say I learned a lesson, that I turned my back on demon rum, but that’s not how life works. By the next summer I was cruising with friends, drinking beer and attending keggers in the woods. But I still don’t care for the taste of Vodka. |
| Hollywood really loves crap, so a Trump biopic is inevitable. Here are some ideas . . . Rage of Angles A twice-impeached, one-term president explodes in an impassioned fit of seditious lunacy. After failing to subvert the Department of Justice, he seduces a smitten conservative lawyer into a plot to overthrow the 2020 presidential election. The Fraud Couple The story of a mismatched pair of con men who disagreed on everything except the need to turn America into a fascist dictatorship. One is an aged, feeble senator and the other is a fat, loud-mouthed president. Can they put their differences aside long enough to destroy democracy? Little Big Man The underwhelming tale of a large man who casts a small shadow. Wince at the story of how he achieved high office with low character. Be amazed at the business acumen that turned a huge family fortune into a pile of leveraged debt. Yawn through repetitive, rambling speeches that sound like real words! Endure an endless litany of lies and self-promotion as he speaks loudly and carries a small stick. Don’t miss the movie that promises everything and delivers nothing! Raging Bullshit A searing portrayal of the final days of Donald Trump’s presidency. The powerful final scene shows him sitting alone and friendless in a darkened oval office. His orange face is limned by the glow of a smartphone as he sends angry tweets late into the night, making a last desperate attempt to ‘hit back harder’. The Ugly American The story of a physically unattractive president who proves that ugly goes right to the bone. Cringe at his offensive display of cultural ignorance! Watch in horror as he destroys decades of goodwill and international cooperation! If there’s one show you should miss this year, this is it! Gone With The Windbag America’s reputation is reduced to tatters by a self-promoting blowhard who wages an uncivil war on truth and decency. Aliens A beleaguered President Trump stands alone against illegal immigrants who pop up everywhere. He will fight them at the border, in the fields and orchards, at businesses small or large, in the servants' quarters of his penthouse, and even on the grounds of his own golf resorts! The Lyin’ King A young Donald Trump, alone and unloved, struggles to live up to the image of his famous father. Unable to achieve success in real life, he becomes a legend in his own mind. A Conspiracy of Dunces The story of how the Trump White House fucked up absolutely everything. |
| Not done yet . . . The Essence of Political Speech by Rand M. Noyes Wastewater Management by Yuri Nation Basic Frisk Technique by Patton M. Downes Arguing the Issues by Dee Bates Addiction Tango by Jewel B. Bach Cry of the Banshee by Waylon D. Knight Stormhaven Cove by Lee Shore Never Give Up! by Constance F. Oort The Agony of Existence by Olivia N. Payne Breakfast Favorites by Annie Moore Bacon Self Gratification by Holden Wood and Jack N. Hoff Oral Traditions by Anita Moorehead See also: "Another Pile of Peculiar Books" See also: "Continuing With a Theme" |
Fires, floods, droughts, and hurricanes. Pandemic, mass murder, insurrection, and election fraud. Lies, insults, corruption, and greed. All of these are the legacy of the Trump administration. Is it just the sad, but normal result of venal human nature? An inevitable but purely natural result of climate change? A lemming-like response to overpopulation? Or are these things a punishment inflicted on America for turning away from God to worship Donald Trump? Perhaps the answer is simply yes. All of these may be true to some extent. It's known that God helps those who help themselves. It may also be true that God doesn't save those who heedlessly seek their own destruction. Is it a punishment or just tough love when God leaves us to fend for ourselves? I was discussing this topic with a friend recently. We were shaking our heads at the self-centered focus of modern culture. We specifically wondered what had happened to the stewardship of conservatives like Teddy Roosevelt (trustbuster and creator of the national park system). We noted that old-fashioned words like duty, honor, and public service are no longer included in the conservative vocabulary. My friend sighed and said, "It seems like we're already living in the end times." "That would explain a lot," I replied with a sudden flash of inspiration. "What if all of the actual Christians in the world have already been taken up to heaven in the rapture? That's why they don't speak out against Trumpism. There's nobody left on the religious right except for televangicals and the cult of Trump. The bible says that we don't know the hour when these things will happen. Would we even know that it had happened? It's not like a huge number of us are saintly enough to qualify for the rapture." "So, we've been left behind?" My friend laughed at the idea, but I'm not so sure that I was joking. Are these the end times? Could Donald Trump really be the Antichrist? Or is he merely anti-Christian? He was held up as a divine being at a conservative event this week and the audience cheered. One of the featured speakers believes that a woman can be impregnated with demon-sperm (neither Eric Trump nor Don Jr. have contradicted her). Another speaker put a curse on Trump's enemies, invoking the 'angel of death' to punish the disloyal. That kind of satanic stuff would have gotten them burned at the stake in old Salem. It elicited roars of approval from the Trumper crowd. If they believe in witchcraft, then maybe we should seriously consider the possibility that this failed, one-term ex-president really is an emissary of Satan. To help you make up your mind, here are a few documented contrasts between Trumpism and Christianity: Christianity teaches that lust is a sin. Trumpism teaches that "If you're a celebrity, they have to let you do it." Serious Christians take vows of poverty, charity, and chastity. Devoted Trumpers enjoy the sins of greed, anger, envy, and pride at every rally. Jesus told the people to pay their taxes, "Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's." Trumpism says "tax evasion is just good business." Christianity commands "Thou shalt not kill." Trumpism says "I could shoot somebody, and I wouldn't lose any voters." Jesus said to forgive a trespass seventy-seven times. Trumpism shouts "Hang Mike Pence!" Christianity inspires us to be our best selves. Trumpism excuses our base impulses. Jesus fed the crowd with loaves and fishes. Trumpism begs the crowd for nickels & dimes. Jesus said "Suffer the little children to come unto me." Trumpism takes children away from refugee parents and makes them orphans. Christianity teaches that the truth will set you free. Trumpism hides behind the big lie. Jesus said, "turn the other cheek." Trumpism says "hit back harder." The central teaching of Christianity is self-sacrifice, "even unto death on a cross." The central theme of Trumpism is "what's in it for me." |
The sun barely shone; smoke too thick to play. So we had to stay in all that dark, dreary day. My lap full of Charlie and Sienka nearby, we’re fitfully napping ‘neath smog-yellow sky. Light kisses the window and Charlie jumps off. I open the slider but start in to cough. Sickly sun trickles down but it’s not clear enough. Retreat back inside, we can’t breathe this stuff! |
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