Posts Tagged ‘idiots’


Tabloid journalism & comments….

January 15, 2016



It takes a village…..

May 7, 2014

to hide its idiots….

The appearance of chronic acute OCD at the Federal level is just that…. appearance, albeit a rather convincing one. Focused study and pondering over the past few years has revealed the real issue, the thing driving the apparent compulsion to micromanage American, nay, global goings-on at the quantum level. The culprit is job creation. It takes a village to move a paper clip from one side of a room to the other, you know:

paper clips1

Amazing, isn’t it? Why, all I needed in sixth grade to “transport” a paper clip from one side of the room to the other was a good rubber band.

Of course, my prime objective was to wing Billy Davis’ left ear without nailing the teacher in the stern sheets on the rebound. In other words, I wanted to get the paperclip to the destination without getting caught.

The village philosophy of Standard Fastener Mobility’s mission, on the other hand, is to utilize as many people as possible to get a specific paperclip from Point A to Billy’s ear, pay them generously for their service (hence making them ineligible for unemployment benefits) thereby validating claims to an improved economy and a drop in unemployment. Naturally, if things don’t go quite according to plan, which is often the case, contingency plans are in place to ensure that should the teacher’s bum experience an unfortunate event involving a wayward paperclip, Billy Davis will be seriously implicated and hung out to dry.


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Bag of Hammers Award…

November 5, 2013

for those dumber than said bag….

The last experience to leave me speechless was a few years ago when the anesthesiologist gave me the juice preparatory to surgery and the only thing left functioning under its own steam was my ticker. That was before this afternoon, when I found my lower jaw bouncing around on the floor mat between my feet as my wife and I were driving down one of the major roads in town.

We live in central Maine, which bears no resemblance to the horizon to horizon concrete and hot top where most people live, and that’s just fine with me. Thirty five or forty years ago I could yawn my way through bumper to bumper traffic at 70 mph on a highway with six lanes in each direction, but today I kind of like the “Two’s company, three’s a crowd” rule; two lanes of traffic, that is. Most of the “city boy” in me rusted and fell off ages ago anyway.

So, a “major road” in my town might be a “driveway” in your book, but a five lane road in our area (two in each direction and a middle one for turns) is a significant piece of pavement. Mary was driving, and as we came to the crest of a rise, the car to our left in the “passing lane” ground to a halt. Everybody else did, too.

Picture this: Nose to nose with the car to our left a vehicle headed in the opposite direction was stopped as well, with his left turn signal on. He wasn’t stopped in the middle turn lane. He was stopped one lane too far over and was blocking the passing lane on our side of the road.

Bag-of-Hammers_COPY 2

My wife gave the driver a “Well go ahead, you dumb @#!$, TURN awreddy” wave of the hand, but the guy driving was too engrossed in his phone conversation to pick up on the courtesy right away. His passenger, presumably his wife, smiled and waved back. I don’t know if she poked him in the ribs, kicked him, or whether he had finished ordering a pizzas or discussing the last Patriots game with someone in Iowa, or whatever the hell he was doing instead of driving, but finally he moseyed into a gentle turn and slowly made his way across the eastbound lanes….still mouthing inanities into his phone.

He didn’t decide to move any too soon. I caught a glimpse of Mary’s right foot as it paused in mid-air in preparation for its full-power downward thrust toward the gas pedal. Now, a Buick is like a Sherman Tank, and neither is supposed to “burn rubber”, and my wife is “strong Russian vooman” (roll the R’s vigorously) and not one to be moved or stopped once she makes up her mind. Had that idiot driver been a hair slower getting out of the way, it would not have been his lucky day.

So, to the jackass yakking on his phone and making a turn from the wrong side of Kennedy Memorial Drive in Waterville, Maine this afternoon, I bestow the very first Bag of Hammers Award (“ for those dumber than said bag”), alternately to be known as the Bag of Sand Award (“ for those a few grains short of a beach”).

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April 5, 2013

the (alleged) male chauvinist President….

Kim Jung Un stands up in his playpen to threaten humanity with nuclear devastation and whole world yawns. Obama says an old friend is pretty, and the OCD Department of the PC Mafia gets the vapors.

I can’t decide whether to laugh, toss my cookies, or publicly tell my best friend I think she has a nice butt just to see if I can give some Xtreme Liberal an anxiety attack. I’ve been married to my best friend for almost 22 years now, by the way, but you never know who might be listening. Maybe I’d better check the perimeters and then just whisper something about nuclear war or how I admired her skill with the lawnmower one day last August.

Can you believe some of these jackasses? The Pickle-Face ~ Pucker-Butt Award of the Week has to go to the gentleman from New York Magazine who declared that judging a woman by her looks makes it difficult to achieve gender equality in the workplace. If the NYM writer had spent more time paying attention and less time bottom fishing for a granule of sand from somewhere in the vicinity of a mole hill that he might transform into a mountain, he would have heard the President praise California Attorney General Kamala Harris for her professional performance. His reference to her being attractive was obviously delivered in a light-hearted and friendly “oh, by the way” manner, which is apparently the way it was taken by the people in attendance, including the AG herself.

The Ninny from New York went on to say the President needs sensitivity training. Wow! Did this guy forget to take his meds this morning, or did he accidentally take them twice?

The most amazing part, however, is that his inane scribbling was deemed worthy of the pixels required to foul a moment of cyberspace time with.

In my humble opinion, the man isn’t much of a journalist, although I realize that my opinion and $6.95 will get you a cup of coffee. The possibility that he might also be funny looking as hell is, of course, irrelevant as well.


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disclaimer: I’m no Obama fan. I didn’t vote for him, and wouldn’t have under any circumstances because I disagree with his politics. I didn’t write this as a defense of the President. I’m sure he’s quite capable of doing that himself if he feels the need. I wrote this in response to the nincompoopery demonstrated by the hankie wringing article about his California visit that oozed from the fringe zones of our cultural intellect. Normally, such gnats stay in their own little yard harmlessly amusing each other, but every once in a while one of them strays into the public domain and annoys the rest of us.


Lions and tigers and bears, OH MY…..

December 28, 2012

everyone hates everyone else….

It was inevitable. Now they’re asking “Is Westboro Baptist Church a hate group?”

So, the new American Spirit is, “if somebody pisses you off, you ask Uncle Nanny to send them to their room?” Even MY lexicon does not include enough profanity and bathroom-based invective to describe such an incredibly stupid and….yes….. UNAMERICAN…..suggestion.

It reminds me of my sister and I, at our respective ages of six and five, doing one of those “Y’are too”-“Iyamnot!” bits. If our idiotic and impotent Congress wasn’t so amenable to such ideas, it would be funny. But they are, and it’s not.

I’ll play.

Those who wish to restrain the speech and activities of those we find to be obnoxious, insulting, wrong, too biased, not biased enough, too tall, too short, too blond, not blond enough, the wrong religion, attending the wrong school, ugly, snotty, or favoring unattractive shrubbery in front of their houses…….you are all TERRORISTS….and, should be…


I said that. Now, ignore me.


Not that I’d notice…..

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Homo Sapiens Dumbputz….

November 12, 2012

I suppose it was inevitable ….

As life unfolded before me, I found myself being the target of a considerable amount of information conveyed with varying levels of urgency. The fundamentals, of course, included hints to prevent (or at least postpone) me from breaking my neck, guidelines for keeping me from providing motivation to someone else for breaking my neck for me, and the usual shtick about how to get into Heaven instead of That Other Place.

The rest of the emphasis was more directed towards commercial and social interests, sort of like it is today, but with some significant differences. For example, when I was a kid, the advertisements in print, on the radio, and then on that new TV thing, usually involved some lady in an apron holding up a box of laundry soap, or a cowboy sucking on the ONLY cigarette one should consider in order to guarantee being on the “A List” instead of wasting away in the basement of life choking down the equivalent of yard waste. If you could inhale the guts of a Camel or a Lucky Strike without throwing up, getting a nose bleed, or passing out, you were right up there with John Wayne and every other hairy chested hero, even if you were only twelve and your testicles hadn’t descended yet.

Thus, by the time I fell into the adult phase of my life cycle I was pretty well indoctrinated regarding the best laundry soaps, tobacco products, booze, breakfast cereals, and the cars most capable of peeling the rear tires off right down to the rims before hitting second gear. We had also been “educated” about which of the dozen or so flavors of nineteen cents per gallon gasoline was the next best thing to Jesus Christ in liquid form when it came to performing miracles. I had become immune to the sharp edges of Lucky Strikes by my mid-teens, but settled on Winston as my chosen path to COPD, except when doing scratch and spit stuff with “the guys” under which circumstances King of the Mountain stature depended being able to smoke what most nearly approached the equivalent of dog shit rolled up in yesterday’s newspaper without flinching.


Half a C-note later, the couple of generations following in my footsteps, or more likely trying desperately to avoid doing so, have met a significantly different gauntlet to run between the highchair days and the dénouement of high school. Unbelievable, it is; and astronomically expensive in more currencies than just money.

Speaking of money, we didn’t really have any, comparatively speaking. That’s not a whine. It’s just the way it was, but despite any sense of deprivation we might have laid claim to from time to time, we did fine. Oh, there were the few privileged kids from the preferable side of the tracks who always had the latest styles and either drove Daddy’s convertible or got their own for a birthday present. Most of us, however, lived a more terrestrial existence and managed very well. If I needed money, I mowed a lawn, raked leaves, or shoveled snow for a few dollars. Interpret the word “few” literally. Nevertheless, it usually was enough. When I got my first part time job, at fourteen, the pay was a dollar an hour. Occasionally, there were adolescent incidents of petty crime, but that’s another story for another time.

I wonder, as I suppose every generation has in its seniority, about what fates will befall those just now discovering that they have some wild oats, and that it might be interesting to sow a few.

Life is notably more complex now, of course, for a number of reasons, including changes in the social, economic, technological, and environmental milieu. Two or more cars per household constitute the norm now, rather than being an exception reserved for the privileged strata. Heck, two or more bathrooms are now the norm as well, for that matter. We generally have more, at a glance making even a comfortable life in the fifties or sixties appear Spartan by comparison. I’m not saying they were the “good old days”, by any means. We had “junk” then, too. We just have a hell of a lot more of it now. Poverty then meant not having shoes; today it means not having designer shoes. We compensate for non-designer shoes today by owning a dozen pair of Chinese Cheapos from WallyWorld. When the laces get dirty, you throw the shoes away and buy a new pair. Tomorrow’s billionaires are the people buying up overstuffed landfills today. Someday, technology will enable them to make a lot of money from all of that crap.


Television is a major precipitant to eye-rolling, yawns, and multilingual profanity around our house. I suspect TV isn’t long for this world, since multiple forms of communication and entertainment seem to be morphing towards a single source computer-based format, but between now and then the venue merits commentary. In spite of being a relative newbie in the grand scheme of things, television must be in its death throes anyway because it has become so ludicrous. “Humor” is now exemplified by hour-long time slots stuffed with videos of people tripping on obstacles, running into trees or random posts, falling down stairs, and other such fare, most likely staged or sneaked without the victim’s knowledge, with an occasional clip that was obtained through the genuine serendipity of just being in the right place at the right time, with camera in hand, when someone else just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Its the logical outgrowth of what I caricatured as the America’s Funniest Disembowelment fascination but a few years ago. We don’t just chuckle at the occasional mishap, though. We hunt humiliation and near death experiences down, facilitate them, sometimes outright cause them, and then kick back with a bag of chips and guffaw at the misfortunes and injuries of others. Some of it is pretty low rent, in my opinion, and practically elevates early Jerry Springer stuff to Top Shelf status. If you had a rival Olympic skater’s knees whacked to give your self an edge, or if you know George Carlin’s Seven Dirty Words by heart, you, too, can have a prime-time Laugh-a-Long.

The latest fad, already beginning to wrinkle as the next inane concept approaches the horizon, has been the farcically titled “REALITY” show. The only thing “real” about that fare is the fact that they “really” have a camera on site to record idiots doing the idiotic.

About every ten minutes, even in the case of the most unembellished of documentaries, the viewer is subjected to 8 or more “commercials”, the majority of them yakking up twenty first century over-the-counter versions of the Snake-Oil of yore, or some pharmaceutical product for one of an endless list of real or imagined maladies. The latter instruct one to educate one’s physician about the spotlighted drug, and to insist upon being given a prescription for it, even after having listened to a long string of potential misfortunes that would make Hannibal Lechter faint.

I find these commercials both hilarious and annoying. First of all, anyone who actually needs all of that shit is probably dead anyway, so their loved ones should just bury the remains and save a bundle of money that might otherwise be squandered on pointless therapies. The latest model of the human species has been in production, and has developed, for anywhere from 6,000 to 600,000 years, depending upon one’s brain size and source of information, and best of all, 99% of either figure has been accomplished without ANY of the junk being hawked as critical to the continuance of life. People must buy it though, because they keep on selling it. Go figure.

On that note, let’s clarify something. I go to my doctor so he can tell me what’s wrong, and what I can do about it, not the other way around. He spent at least twelve more years in college than I did, and I presume his grades were far better than mine, especially in the sciences. He gets paid $120 to let me sit in a room with year old women’s magazines until 9:15 for an 8:45 appointment. When he arrives, I fart, say “ah”, and he leaves. Usually, I feel better. If I have to self-diagnose and teach him biochemistry and pharmacology, he’s going to have to pay ME $120. Make that $150.

Among the most ridiculous of the ads are those for Viagra and Cialis. You know, the endless skits showing potential NFL first draft candidates giving the sneaky-peeky to their personal Playboy Centerfold units before they go sit in twinsie bath tubs out in a field. Gimme a break. Men twice their age can still carry a towel to the shower, no hands. Was there a nuclear accident we never heard about? Is the younger generation doomed to flaccid extinction?

I don’t make light of what is a very real medical issue for some people. I just don’t think the problem, or its alleged miracle cure, require equal time with soft drinks, breakfast cereals, and GM vehicles. I mean, I’m all for equity and fairness and all of that stuff, but after nearly fifty years of learning progressively more and more about the needs of female nether regions, the thought of a half century tit for tat (or visa versa) riposté regarding the male junkyard is a bit scary.

So, the general population is addicted to the “idiot box” and its kin, and in spite of some of our remarkable achievements such as putting a man on the moon, inventing artificial body parts, and countless real-life manifestations of stuff even Captain Kirk thought were just fun things to dream about, we seem to be slipping into a state of cow-eyed stupidity while our descendants’ DNA mutates toward eventually providing some sort of biological USB outlets.


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….Antics of a Trogdolyte  

January 14, 2012

I was distracted on an internet discussion forum by the antics of a Troglodyte claiming three Master’s Degrees and a Ph.D. His delusions of grandeur shielded him from awareness that people with G.E.D.s were effortlessly making common sense observations while he continuously presented himself as a pompous ass instead of the model of brilliance, a mantle he presumed to own by fiat.

One hopefully learns a few things along the trail, with or without silken sashes, tassels, and ornate parchments gathering dust on the wall. My path did manage to expose me to useful tidbits. One of the things I learned was the value of Die Gestalt, in a sense, when faced with things which just don’t feel, right. Don’t just listen to the words someone says. They sometimes mean little compared to all of the other aspects of communication transpiring. The finesse of a con artist, a magician, and many others is founded in the ability to effectively distract and substitute a perceived reality of his own making for the true one. Our brains take scattered cues, mixes them with expectations based on experience, and we operate according to results of that process.

I refused to be sucked in. It was interesting to observe how quickly his air of superiority and mewling condescension changed into rather unsophisticated efforts to discount the validity of uncooperative readers of his tirades instead of jousting with their ideas. He descended into undisguised personal attacks and global generalities, which made it clear to me that, while he may indeed have four post graduate degrees, what he did NOT have was both oars in the water.