I’ll Be The Judge Of That

Oh damn! They want us to do our civic duty again. Do they think that retired people have nothing but spare time?? I already voted. Now they want the wife and I to fill out questionnaires to go into a pot for jury duty.

About ten years ago, just before I quit working, I got a notice that I was already in a jury pool. They would contact me when I had to report. They must have pulled enough other rabbits out of their legal hat, because nothing ever came of it. I never got any further notice, written, electronic, or phone.

It’s not that I object to jury duty. It could be quite entertaining. It might be even more entertaining when they find that my over-active bladder needs to hit the washroom once an hour. I could take a big plastic pop-bottle with me, like some of the long-haul truckers, but there’s not the same privacy in a courtroom. I might get arrested for indecent exposure right there in the jury box.

After 18 months without a power wheelchair, the daughter was finally awarded a new one, along with a 4-wheeled walker. The new, local, manager of the Ontario Assistive Devices Program office felt that, if she qualified for one before, she should get another one.

Still, I have a daughter and a wife, both semi-disabled. With the son working all night, and sleeping all day, I am the only licensed driver available to convey them and me to an never-ending series of medical appointments – GPs, dentists, Osteopath, massage therapy, Internal Medicine, Neurologist, Rheumatologist, Optometrist, Ophthalmologist, Chiropractor, Podiatrist, Optical Surgeon, medical clinic for blood work and X-rays, pain-management clinic for infusion treatment….

How I miss the days when we were all boringly healthy. My wall calendar is full of color-coded appointments. In any given month, with20/22 weekdays, 12 to 18 of them will have marker notes in them, occasionally 2 in one day. Hell, Donald Trump has more spare time to play golf, than I do. If either/both of us get summoned, I’m going to take that calendar along. While I’d love some time off, I have commitments that I have to honor. My doctor recently told me that she could/would write me a letter to get me off.

Maybe if I ask the selection foreman if we still have the death penalty…. 😳

Have any of you ever sat on a jury? What crime(s)? How long did it last?

They’re (One-)Lining Up

I told my psychiatrist that I keep hearing voices in my head and creating imaginary people….
….He told me that I don’t have a psychiatrist.

***

My mom said “you treat this place like a hotel”………
……..she will regret that when I give her a low score on Trip Advisor for ‘rude staff’.

***

The book that I wrote about poltergeists….
….is flying off the shelves

***

The only thing that Flat Earthers fear….
….is sphere itself

***

I was arrested last week for stealing helium balloons……
…..the police held me for a while and then let me go.

***

My pet rock is not doing well today….
….I think it is stoned

***

I’ve been searching for my stolen bed…….
………I won’t rest until I find it.

***

My ex girlfriend just found out that I’ve replaced her bed with a trampoline…..
……She hit the roof.

***

My girlfriend had her driving test the other day. She got 8 out of 10……….
……the other 2 guys jumped clear.

***

My optician told me today that I’m color blind…….
……..that came right out of the orange!

***

I’m hoping to find a cure for my hiccups…..
……but I’m not holding my breath.

***

I bought a pair of shoes off a drug dealer……..
……..dunno what he’s laced them with,
………but I’ve been trippin’ all day.

***

I just bought a book called, “How To Avoid Being Ripped Off.”….
….best $100 I ever spent.

***

Someone just told me to stop acting like a flamingo………
……..so I had to put my foot down.

***

I turned to drink when my girlfriend left me….
….I like to celebrate in style

***

My doctor told me that jogging can add years to my life…….
……he’s right; I feel 10 years older already.

***

Breaking News….
….Ne ws

***

Just saw an ad that read, “TV for sale, $1, volume stuck on full high.” I thought to myself….
….I can’t turn that down

***

Scientists have recently discovered a gene that causes shyness…….
……they found it hiding behind two other genes.

***

My friend told me that he’s been constipated for two years….
….I think he’s full of shit.

***

I once dumped a cross-eyed chick….
….I thought she was seeing someone else.

***

My doctor gave me six months to live, so I shot him….
….The judge gave me twenty years.

***

My friend sent me an empty email….
….His message was clear….

Dead On

Three dead bodies turn up at the mortuary, all with very big smiles on their faces. The coroner calls the police to tell them what has happened.

“First body: Frenchman, 60, died of heart failure while making love to his mistress. Hence the enormous smile, Inspector”, says the Coroner.

“Second body: “Scotsman, 25, won a thousand dollars on the lottery, spent it all on whisky. Died of alcohol poisoning, hence the smile.”

The Inspector asked, “What of the third body?”

“Ah,” says the coroner, “this is the most unusual one. Billy-Bob the redneck from Oklahoma, 30, struck by lightning.”

“Why is he smiling then?” inquires the Inspector.

“Thought he was having his picture taken.”

***

A little Jewish boy in New York lives with/near his extended family. Along with his Mom and Dad, his Grandma lives in their apartment, and various aunts and uncles live in the same tenement. Finally, he is old enough to go to school.

When he returns home after the first day, his ‘Moma’ gives his cheek the usual Grandma pinch, and says, “So, bubeleh, and vhat did you learn in school the first day?”

He looked her in the eye and replied, “The first thing I learned is that I am not ‘bubeleh’! My name is Lennie!

***

Speaking of politicians….
A tourist on the East Coast noticed a lobster fisherman with two pails of lobsters. One was covered with a cloth, but the other wasn’t. When he asked why the one was covered, he was told that it contained American lobsters. They would help each other escape.

The other pail was full of Canadian lobsters. Whenever one of them got close to the top, the others would pull him back down.

***

I’m going to open a restaurant named “Peace And Quiet”, where the kids’ meals are $250.00

***

A blonde pushes her BMW into a gas station. She tells the mechanic it died.
After he works on it for a few minutes, it is idling smoothly.
She says, “What’s the story?”
He replies, “Just crap in the carburetor.”
She asks, “How often do I have to do that?

=====*=====
A police officer stops a blonde for speeding and asks her very nicely if he could see her license. She replied in a huff, “I wish you guys would get your act together.  Yesterday you took my license away, and today you expect me to show it to you!”
=====*=====

A blonde was playing Trivial Pursuit one night. It was her turn.  She rolled the dice and landed on Science & Nature. Her question was, “If you are in a vacuum and someone calls your name, can you hear it?”   She thought for a time and then asked,
“Is the vacuum on or off?”
=====*=====

The blonde reports for her university final examination that consists of yes/no type questions.  She takes her seat in the examination hall, stares at the question paper for five minutes and then, in a fit of inspiration, takes out her purse, removes a coin and starts tossing the coin, marking the answer sheet: Yes, for Heads, and No, for Tails.

Within half an hour she is all done, whereas the rest of the class is still sweating it out.  During the last few minute s she is seen desperately throwing the coin, muttering and sweating.

The moderator, alarmed, approaches her and asks what is going on.  “I finished the exam in half an hour, but now I’m rechecking my answers.”
=====*=====
Blonde, it’s not just a hair color, it’s an adventure!
=====*=====

A brunette told her blonde sister that she slept with a Brazilian.

The blonde sister exclaimed, “You slut! How many is a brazilian?”

=====*=====

 

Spam I Am

In my Spamalot post, I claimed that I don’t get any interesting spams to make fun of.

Caution – dirty words

1. JeanneTunty says:

September 2, 2017 at 4:27 am  (Edit)

Hello Fuck me like a slut and cum on my face my nickname (Lidochka35)

Copy the link and go to me… bit.ly/2wBKSBp

8667837957926

I’d like to say, ‘Finally, an interesting Spam.’, but actually, this illiterate, (Aren’t they all?) illicit one got past the Akismet filter, and dropped on one of my posts. Sadly, back in the spam filter, there are a bunch of her ‘soiled dove’ sisters, and lots of offers of drugs that aid in dealing with her suggestions.

There are 78 spam comments in my file today. Apparently, they have built up. I don’t often look at them, because they will automatically disappear in 14 days, but a storm-generated power outage blip had me restarting my computer, and signing back in to WordPress, and that’s where you get dropped.

(Two weeks later, there are 61 today. Surprisingly, the mix has shifted to Nike and Converse. Offering me athletic shoes is like giving a dog a driver’s licence. Ain’t gonna happen! Like the son, recently, at work….The boss said, “Hop up on that platform and clear the blockage.” The son said to him, “Look at me! I’m 6’ –2”. I weigh 275 pounds. I don’t HOP anywhere. I might crawl up – and roll off when I’m done.”)

I believe that they are attracted, like moths to a flame, by words in the title. Many of them, like the one above, are for porn. Of the 78, more than a dozen each arrived addressed to ‘Hot-Damn Hotrod,’ the hot damn being profanity. More were directed to ‘Criminal Assholed’, a two more profane-words title directed at English misusage. Another dozen or so washed up against ‘A View Of Islam’, a controversial, redneck-type label. I guess if I talk dirty, I gotta expect the spammers to talk dirty back.

At first I wondered about the quantity of spam, offering porn. Surely, I thought, there are tons of guys looking for naked chicks. (And donkeys, and Ukrainian midgets….and other stuff I don’t want to think about) But, it’s ‘supply and demand’, and there’s a lot more supply than there is demand, so that every ‘one’ potential customer counts.

A young man, walking downtown, notices a friend of his standing near a corner. As he drew near he heard his friend stop an attractive young woman, and ask, “Excuse me, would you like to fuck?” “Of course not!” and she slapped his face.

As he got nearer, his friend stopped another pretty lady going the other way and asked the same thing….and again got his face slapped. When he reached his friend he asked, “Why would you ask them that? Don’t you get your face slapped a lot?”

“Yes”, he replied wistfully, “but it only takes one…”

 

(ARCH)ON The Road Again

WARNING, Long involved DMV bureaucratic rant.
Proceed at your own boredom.

After almost 30 years, my ARCHON vanity plates, first acquired here, are back on the road.  The wife and I bought our last car.  It’s actually a rice-burning, Kia Sorento SUV, which sits high enough that the semi-disabled wife and daughter don’t have to fight to get down into, and up out of.  Properly maintained, it should last 10/15 years, perhaps longer than us.  In any case, the next one’s up to son Shimoniac to buy.

This is the first NEW car we’ve owned in almost 50 years of marriage. We purchased two that were less than a year old, taking advantage of the 30% depreciation in value, but were still new enough to be reliable.

For years, we’ve had the wife’s 3 TEASE plates on our cars, because they were registered in her name, and we’d been told by the DMV that that was necessary. It was all a Lie.

I’ve used the term, ‘DMV’ mostly for my American readers. Here in Ontario, we have the oxymoronically named “Service Ontario.”  That’s where you have to go, for aggravation, incompetence, poverty, hunting and fishing licenses, drivers’ licenses, licence plates, birth certificates, and certified ID cards for people like the daughter, LadyRyl, who can’t drive.

After the heart-stopping negotiation of financing this beast, yea, verily, unto the second and third generations, the first problem came when we had the salesman (try to) put my old plates on my new car.

I gave him my old plates, along with the plate ownership form, and the transfer form. The last sticker was applied in 1987.  When we went back the next day to pick the car up, he handed me back my plates (but not the two forms), and said that the licence bureau wouldn’t let him use my plates because they were registered in the wrong name. We had to take generic plates, and arrange to apply the ARCHON plates ourselves.

A couple of weeks later, we were ready to try. The first thing that the user-(un)friendly Service Ontario did, was ensure that the relatively handy, downtown branch, only 4.2 Km away, DIDN’T PROVIDE AUTO-LICENCE SERVICE.  Instead, we got to drive 9.7 Km to a branch on the other side of town.  We chose a quiet Wednesday afternoon, when the lineup was only 45 minutes long.

The first time we went, we exchanged the generic plates for the old ARCHON plates.  Having a brand-new car, the wife wondered, for a niggling fee of $93.20, if I’d like a brand-new set of plates.  It seems a good idea, except….new plates are no longer paint, baked onto steel.  They are now printed plastic, laminated on, and there have been many cases of them delaminating, costing drivers $55 to replace faulty Chinese manufacturing.  We’ll see how these ones last.

Six weeks later, my new set arrived by mail, and off we set once more, to surrender the old set, and validate the new ones. The clerk picked up each set, and found she had to struggle with the old ones.  They weighed twice what the new ones do.  She’d never seen a set that old.  She wondered why we’d gone from generic to vanity, and then to a new set.

The female branch manager was sitting at the next service wicket, and overheard our conversation. Every time I described what happened, or what I was told, she shook her head.  I explained how I was not allowed to put my plates on a car registered to the wife.  ‘No, you can do that.’ (With the proper, paid-for form)

I bitched that I wasn’t allowed to transfer the ownership of the plates to the wife, without surrendering them to the Provincial Government. ‘No, you don’t have to surrender them.  You can transfer them to your wife.’  (With the proper, paid-for form)  My clerk looked up, surprised.  “They’re registered in your wife’s name now.”  Wait, what??!  After telling me that they couldn’t do it, they changed the plate registration – but didn’t tell me they had??  And we paid to buy the wife her own set, and mine languished for decades??!  So that explains the dealer’s problem. I can’t put her plates on my car.  ‘No, no, I told you that they should have done that.  (With the proper, paid-for forms)

So we transferred plate ownership back to me – for $20. Then the clerk wanted to know where the plate ownership and vehicle transfer forms were.  “I gave them to the dealer, and I never got them back.  I assume that the clerk at the office that they use, kept them.”  Manager is shaking her head again.  ‘They should have been returned.  We’ll have to generate new ones.’

The clerk then charged me $20 to use information that’s already on their computer, to print out an ownership form, and another $20 for the same computer information to print a transfer form, for their own paper files.  The plate licence expires on my birthday, late in September.  Should we renew for just one year – or two??  The manager piped up, ‘The yearly fee is increasing from $100/year, to $120/year, starting September 1.  Why don’t you pre-pay for three years and save?’

I begin to understand why Canada has such restrictions on gun ownership. Do any of you have bureaucratic duel stories (shorter than this) that you want to share??   😯

Show Me The Money

A student’s request for extra money

A student called up his Mom one evening from his college and asked her for some money, because he was broke.

His Mother said, “Sure, sweetie. I will send you some money. You also left your economics book here when you visited two weeks ago. Do you want me to send that up too?”

“Uhh, oh yeah, O.K.” responded the kid.

So his Mom wrapped the book along with the checks up in a package, kissed Dad goodbye, and went to the post office to mail the money and the book.

When she gets back, Dad asked, “Well how much did you give the boy this time?”

“Oh, I wrote two checks, one for $20, and the other for $1,000.”

“That’s $1020!!!” yelled Dad, “Are you going crazy???”

“Don’t worry hon,” Mom said, kissed Dad on the on top of his bald head, “I taped the $20 check to the cover of his book, but I put the $1,000 one somewhere among the pages in chapter 15!”

***

Who is the Winner?

The father of five children had won a toy at a raffle. He called his kids together to ask which one should have the present. “Who is the most obedient?” he asked. “Who never talks back to mother? and “Who does everything mother says?”
Five small voices replied in unison. “Okay daddy! You get the toy.”

***

The Joy Ride

Bob was 16 and finally got hold of his driver’s license. In order to celebrate the special day, the whole family went out to the driveway and climbed into the car to enjoy his first official drive. However, dad went to the back seat, where he sat right behind his boy.

When Bob saw his dad he said “Dad, you must be fed up of the front seat after teaching me how to drive all these days Right?”

“Nope!” came the quick reply from the dad. “I’m going to sit back here and kick the back of your seat while you drive, just like you’ve been doing to me for the last sixteen years!”

***

Magic Penny

After putting their three-year-old child Brian in bed, his parents heard muffled sobs coming from his room one night. Rushing back in, they found that the child was crying hysterically when he saw them. He told his parents that he had accidentally swallowed a penny and was sure that he would die now. The father, in an attempt to sober him down, took out a penny from his pocket and pretended to pull it out from Brian’s ear. The child was really thrilled and stopped crying at once.

In a flash, he snatched the penny from his dad’s hand, swallowed it, and then cheerfully demanded, “Do it again, Dad!”

***

CLINIC’S NAME

Two elderly couples, (I’m not saying that one of them wasn’t The Archon and Mrs G.O.D.) were enjoying friendly conversation, when one of the men asked the other, “Fred, how was that memory clinic you went to last month?”

“Outstanding!” Fred replied. “They taught us all the latest psychological techniques – visualization, association – it made a big difference for me.”

“That’s great. What was the name of the clinic?”

Fred went blank. He thought and thought, but couldn’t remember.  Then a smile broke across his face, and he asked, “What do you call that red flower with the long stem and thorns?”

“You mean a rose?”

“Yeah, that’s it!” He turned to his wife and said….”Rose, what was the name of that clinic???”

***

BTW!
This is the second time I’ve used this picture of American money, but the first time I’ve noticed that the photo includes a $2 bill in the lower left.  The featured President is Thomas Jefferson.

 

Homeward! Bound?

What books I can’t get for free from the Library, I pay half-price for at the book-exchange stall at the St. Jacob’s Farmers’ Market, or reluctantly buy at full retail from the Chapters Bookstore nearby. Also, a few trickle down from the son, Shimoniac.  One of the ways I enticed him to accompany me on the recent Buffalo/Batavia trip, was to guarantee him a visit to both a large bookstore and/or second-hand book exchange.

Everything is relative. Cordelia’s Mom informed me that the large second-hand bookstore I found online in Buffalo, was just outside the University, and dealt with buying and reselling text-books. The Galleria Mall she led us to, listed ‘Bookstores – 3’ online, if you consider Hallmark Cards a bookstore.

A second was a Christian bookstore, more interested in selling Bibles, rosaries and Holy Water pendants than Sci-Fi or Romance. The last was a New Age-y thing with books on Yoga, weight loss, DIY, and Chicken Soup for the Confused Psyche.  We spent a couple of hours people-watching, and then headed to Batavia, where I assured him there was a Barnes and Noble store.

After our Sunday photographic downtown tour, we allowed Ethel, the GPS, to lead us three miles out of town to 1 College Road. This turned out to be the main administration building of the Genesee State College.  The store might have been run by Barnes and Noble, but it was identified simply as ‘Campus Bookstore’, slightly bigger than a Volkswagen van, full of more textbooks, and closed on Sunday.

“Never fear!” I said.  “I know where there’s a giant Barnes and Noble in Buffalo, as big as the huge Chapters we recently visited in Toronto’s Eaton’s Center.”  (Grump, grump, grump muttered the son.  I’ll bet.)

The next day, after checking out, we headed back to Buffalo. Since ‘I knew where I was going,’ the son hadn’t turned Ethel back on.  There was a post with two curved arrows to the right as we approached Niagara Falls Boulevard.  I drove over it, expecting to take the far ramp down, to go south.  There is no far ramp.

The following is for CM, and any others familiar with Buffalo, to tell her how lost I was, and where.  The rest of you can skip it and just read “Lost, lost, lost, blah, blah, blah.”

A mile and a quarter down I-90, to Colvin – north a mile and a quarter till I encountered a main cross-street, Ellicott Creek Rd. – a mile and a quarter back to Niagara Falls Blvd. and there was The Grapevine, our restaurant of two days ago – south a mile and a quarter, till I was back where I should have been. Moses wandered in the wilderness for 40 years.  I only went 5 useless miles out of my way.

I found the Barnes and Noble, and parked in a handicap spot right in front, because my arthritic hip was bothering me – and then hobbled a 100 yards around the corner to where they put the entrance. The son spent a glorious hour and a half, picking up almost as much ink as if he’d got a tattoo, while I lazed in an easy chair in front of their indoor gas campfire.  Finally sated, but without actually purchasing one book, we headed home.

Back up the Boulevard we went, toward I-90. Again, there were two arrows, one curved, and one L-shaped.  I didn’t want to get caught as I had coming in.  The son was desperately trying to find the GPS.  Just as I decided to merge right, the son yelled, “Take the ramp!”  I did – and off we went in the wrong direction – again.  More ‘Lost, lost, blah, blah.’

The last exit back dumped right into the University of Buffalo. After navigating parking lots and ring road, we finally won free to a surface street.  The son said, “We’re on Maple Road.”  Well, Maple Rd. Is where the Red Roof is that we should have stayed at. “I know where we are.  We’re lost, but we’re making good time.”

Continuing onward, the son said, “We must be getting near civilization. There’s a Taco Bell.  At least we won’t starve to death.”  (As if!)  Ethel the GPS had finally recovered her satellites, and her voice, but I beat her to it.  “Turn right on Sheridan Drive.” I know! I followed the turbo-charged soccer-momobile here last year.  This takes us back to CM’s place.

Soon, we’re back to the Boulevard, and heading for I-90. Another wasted 5 miles.  Moses’ ass, and mine, are getting tired.  Finally facing toward Canada, we head home.  Near Grand Island, the highway runs across the top of a dam.  Suddenly, the light goes on.  This is the entrance to the fabled Erie Canal.

I paid a dollar toll to get onto the island, and another to take the bridge over the gorge. I pulled up to the Canadian Customs booth – and that’s when the trouble started.

I misjudged my approach, and when I went to hand out our passports, I couldn’t reach by two feet. The young Border Guard could have stepped out of his booth, but instead insisted, “Get out of the car!”, which I was happy to do, because I needed to ease my right hip again.  Immediately, I was ordered to, “Get back in your car!”  “Okay, as soon as I can move.”

What the son saw, but I didn’t, was the Free Safety behind the adjacent booth suddenly head toward us with his hand on his Glock. Once the car door was closed, things calmed down – a bit.  Now the Inquisition started.

Why’d you go to the States?
To visit some friends, and do a bit of shopping.
How long were you gone?
(He’s got it on the computer screen in front of him.)  Two days.
Where are you from?
Kitchener.
How much are you bringing back?
For both of us, about $75 US, no alcohol, no tobacco.
Then what did you buy?
Some clothes, some food.
Where do your friends live?
In Tonawanda.
Where did you stay?
Out in Batavia.  It was the nearest place that wasn’t full of football fans.
Do you have a receipt?
Why yes officer, right here beside me.
So you two brothers just went over for a visit?
We are not brothers.  We are father and son.
Have you ever had any trouble getting into the States?
No, officer.
Are you known by any other names?
(Other than Stupid, or Asshole??)  No sir.

He looked across the car at the son and asked for a drivers’ licence, for proof of address, which we passed out, and he examined thoroughly. We just sat there, grinning like the rubes we are.  I asked, “Which name set you off?”  “I can’t tell you that.” But it was the son’s licence he asked for.  Like the TSA No-Fly list, it’s probable that someone with the same name is wanted for something.  We may have this problem in any future trips, but now we are warned.

Now he can step out of the booth, to return all the documents.  No “Thank you, have a nice day sir.” Just, “Okay, away you go.”  Surly enough to be an American.  Did Tim Horton’s refuse to serve you?  Well, we’re back in the Land of the Bland and the Home of the Subservient.

Sex Education

One day Joey asked his grandmother how old she
was. His grandmother said that you should never
ask a woman her age. Later on Joey asked his
grandmother again. And his grandmother still
wouldn’t tell him.

When his grandmother was
making dinner, Joey came in the kitchen and said,
“I know how old you are grandma. You are 61 years
old.” His grandmother asked, “How did you find
out?” Joey said, “I looked on your driver’s
license. Except I didn’t understand one thing.

You failed sex?”

****

The new hooker just finished her first trick, when
she came down the street, the seasoned veterans
gathered around to hear the details.

She said “Well, he was a big muscular handsome sailor.”

“Well, what did he want you to do?” they all asked.

She said, “I told him a straight lay would be $100,
but he didn’t have that much.”

Then she told him, “Oral sex would be $75, but he
didn’t have that much either.”

“Finally I asked him, well how much money do you have?”
He only had $25.

The new hooker said, “Well, for $25 all I can do
is service you by hand.”

He agreed and after getting the $ straight,
she said “He pulled it out and I put one hand on
it, and then a second hand above the first and
then the first hand above the second hand.”

“Oh my god” they all exclaimed, “It must have been
huge, then what did you do?”

“I loaned him $75!” she exclaimed.

****

As he was quietly watching television at home,
a chap hears a sound on the roof of his house
and rushes out to investigate. Seeing it was a
fair sized gorilla tearing the shingles off his
home he promptly calls up the local zoo
authorities to inform them one of their animals
had escaped. He is reassured that a gorilla
recovering unit is on the way and to remain calm.

A few minutes later, an old beat up truck,
displaying the Gorilla recovery unit logo on its
panels, pulls up to the house. The elderly driver
proceeds to remove from the back of the truck, a
Chihuahua dog, a pair of handcuffs, a ladder, a
baseball bat and a 12 gauge shotgun. Puzzled on
how this lone elderly was to solve the problem of
the gorilla, which had by now torn half the roof
apart, the chap asked him how he will go about
doing this.

As he hands him over the 12 gauge
shotgun, the zoo employee explains the plan:
‘First I’ll climb up there with the ladder, then
I approach the gorilla and knock him off the roof,
using the baseball bat. As soon as the gorilla
hits the ground, the specially trained Chihuahua
dog will attack its private parts.’

‘When I get back on the ground, the gorilla will
have lowered its hands to its groin area to
protect itself thus making it easy for me to slip
on the handcuffs.’ ‘Then, I lead him to the
truck, lock him up and take him back to the zoo.’

Amazed at the procedure, the somewhat startled
house-owner asks why he was handed the 12 gauge
shotgun?

‘Well… ‘explains the experienced gorilla
retriever, ‘It’s just a precaution, should things
not go exactly as planned. In the unlikely event
that once I’m on the roof, the gorilla knocks me off
with the baseball bat.

Shoot the dog!!!!’

 

Learner’s Permit

In an unchanging small town, I went to elementary school with pretty much the same thirty-some students for eight years.  When we got bused to high school, we were blended in with other area students, now in four different classes of thirty-some students.

Provincial law insisted that students could not leave school until they were sixteen.  There was a local girl whose birthday was in the spring, as opposed to mine, in late September.  She had an older friend who worked in the local beauty parlor, who would train her to be a hair-dresser.  She finished grade eleven, and quit school to take the job.

She quickly established a clientele and made decent money, some of which she saved, to buy a car.  Her house was on the street behind my sister’s.  When she got off the school-bus, she cut through the property, sometimes stopping to talk.  She was a very mature young lady, unlike my immature, scatterbrained sister.  Despite the ten-year difference in ages, they got along well.  When 21 was the legal drinking age, my 26-year-old sister and her just-as-silly husband, used to take her to hotel bars.  My sister drove her to the county seat, to get her learner’s permit.

The next spring, she bought a small car, and practiced her driving skills.  By this time, I had turned 16, and owned a car I couldn’t legally drive.  It was time to get my learners permit.  I spoke to my sister about it.  She said that my ex-classmate had an appointment to take her road test, and if I wanted to come along, I could write my learners exam.

On a lovely, warm, sunny, June day, we set off, the two gals in the front and me in the backseat.  Imagine a triangle of roads, each side 25 miles long.  From our town to the county seat was 25 miles from A to B.  We got to the edge of town, where the road to the county seat split off the main highway.  Instead of taking the A/B road, we continued on the A/C side of the triangle.  I thought we had to pick up something, or someone.

As we entered the next town, five miles on, I asked where we were going.  To the county seat.  But the road back there takes us to the county seat.  We’ve never been that way.  We’re afraid of getting lost, so we’re taking this route.  Oh well, I’ve got all day.  Sure enough, we drove 25 miles south before turning left to drive 25 miles east, on the C/B side of the triangle.

We got about halfway across, when we had a flat tire.  Not a sudden blowout, we must have run over something.  Just a steady TTtthhhh, lub, lub, lub, and the left, rear tire was flat.  The driver pulled the car well off the paved road, and we got out to look at the problem.

Long before Japanese cars reached North America, hers was smaller than any Detroit iron.  It was probably a Taunus or Vauxhall, imported from England.  Two females and me, guess who got volunteered to change the tire!?  Neither of them knew how.  “Where’s the spare tire and jack?”  “I don’t know.  I’ve only owned it a little while, and I’ve never needed them.”

I pulled crap out of the trunk, and finally found what I needed.  North American cars had bumper jacks, because the cars still had bumpers.  I was faced with a scissors jack I’d never seen before, and had to figure where to place it under the car.  Impact-wrench-installed, rusted-on lug nuts finally surrendered, and I got one wheel off, and the replacement on, and at last we were on our merry way again.  Well, they were merry.  I was rust and grease stained, with bloody knuckles.

Of course, she was late for her scheduled road-test.  She tried to convince the examiner to fit her in, but he had a full day.  She had to rebook for another day.  While she was doing this, I wrote my little test and was awarded my learner’s permit.

After a couple of months’ legal driving practice, I drove my Dad to work, took the family car, and my Mom accompanied me as the licensed driver when I went for my road test.  At least we took the short way there.  The capital of the neighboring county was the same distance away, but it was the little city with the big hills.  Tales circulated of testees getting half-way up the cliff road, when the examiner would reach over and turn off the ignition, to see how you dealt with the problem.  I preferred the flatter city, and managed to get my full license on the first try, something that not every teenager accomplished.

The winner loser in that competition was a British woman who took 49 tries, over 22 years, to finally get a driving licence.  Ah, the freedom of the open road.  While I’ve not driven as much as others, like my brother, I’ve been able to visit some picturesque and interesting places.  I’m not sure Detroit qualifies, but that’s where I’m going next month.  Feel free to tag along.  Right now, I’m going to drive over to SightNBytes place, and pick up my most recent blogging award.

What Was I Saying?

I was saying that some people take being connected way too seriously.  I just read a post by a blogger who went to Disney World for a week, and didn’t take along his laptop.  He’s an early-morning person, and was awake each day shortly after 6 AM.  Despite being in the Mouse house, the rest of his family didn’t wake till 7:30 or 8:00 o’clock.  He bitched that he could have done most of his blogging and following before they woke up.

I thought, “What would you have done if you’d taken them camping, out in the woods?”  Then I read the paper.  There, in the tech section, was an article about this little metal fireplace.  This thing uses the heat from the fire to produce electricity with a heat exchange unit.  Then it uses the electricity to run a blower to get more heat from the fuel, and spread it around a campfire.  And finally, it does what every techie wants.  It pumps the excess power to a USB port, to be used to recharge cell phones, iPads and laptops.  Just what every camper’s wife wants.  He’s never away from the office.  And you can use the recharged phone to take a picture of the bear that ate you.

Grandpa was sitting on the porch, when Billy came out and headed towards his crappy little car.  Grandpa says, “Where ya goin’ Billy?”  Billy answers, “Gotta take the car to the garage to get it fixed.”  “Aw, you don’t need to take your car to a garage.  Why, in my day we just used some Scotch tape and baling wire.  Want me to fix it for you?”  “Sure Grandpa.  Go ahead!”  Grandpa swaggers over to the car and confidently throws open the hood, only to be faced with a confusing array of pipes and wires and tubes and cables.  He stares for a few seconds, slams the hood, and says, “Take it to the garage, Billy.”

After spending over $2000, at least my car starts, first time, every time.  But, if I back out into the street, and don’t straighten the wheels before moving forward, the traction control still growls at me.  I growl right back, but the wife is not impressed.  At least the anti-lock brakes don’t fail, or kick in unexpectedly.  I haven’t been locked out for a long while, but the speedometer has been falling asleep several times in the last week.  Even if Billy takes the car to a garage, there’s no guarantee that they can/will fix it.

A believable explanation for why the black guy was stabbed to death in the park by the white guy, has surfaced.  It brings to mind two related quotes.  The best-laid plans of mice and men, gang aft aglee, (often go wrong) and, Oh what a tangled web we weave, when others we practice to deceive.  It seems that the female involved, used to be involved with the black guy, but he was too sexist and controlling.  Apparently she dumped him and went on to find another boyfriend, who happened to be white.  They all run in the same circles and know the same people, so she made it known that she had a new white boyfriend, to keep the overly-possessive black from harassing her.

He and his ego did not take this well.  He spread the story that he was gonna “get the white guy”, and “get rid of him”, so he could have the girl back.  This was done as a scare tactic, but when it didn’t work, he thought he’d up the ante and threaten him with the fake gun.  The new boyfriend didn’t scare easily, and, to ensure his safety, and that of the female, he obtained and took to carrying a large knife.  When the black guy jumped out in front of them in the dark, waving a firearm, he immediately stabbed and ran.

The young woman will not be charged with anything.  She didn’t carry the fake gun, or try to scare somebody with it.  She didn’t obtain or carry the big knife for self-defence.  In fact she may not even have known it was present.  If either of these two geniuses had done their thinking with grey cells instead of hormones, one kid wouldn’t be dead, and the other mixed up with the law.

Two stories from today’s paper.  A man had his driver’s licence seized when he was charged with drinking beer in a canoe while fishing on a small local lake.  What busybody called the cops?  I’m sure they weren’t just cruising past.  The drunken-boating charge was eventually dropped, but “The System” forgot to give him his licence back.

The second story, immediately underneath, concerns a young, female teacher who survived the tsunami in Japan.  The story says she plans to return to teaching English-as-a-second-language at the rebuilt village on Japan’s Pacific Coast.  The US has an Atlantic and a Pacific coast.  Canada has both of those, plus an Arctic Ocean coast, but, no matter how hard I look at the map of Japan, I don’t see anything except Pacific Coast.

I’ve ranted myself dizzy….no, wait, I came in that way!  I have to get some rest so that I can get up early (?) to take the daughter to the anti-violence fair in the park.  I’ll tell you all about it, in a very passive way.