I’ll Drink To That

Beer

Two old Irishmen were sitting at the local pub
drinking a few beers. So Paddy says to George,
“George me buddy, ol’ pal. When I die could you
pour a couple of beers o’er me grave?”

George says, “Why certainly, but could I strain
it through me kidneys first?”

***

A cop is staking out a bar for drunk drivers. At
closing time, he sees a guy stumble out of the
car, trip on the curb, and fumble for his keys
for five minutes.

When he finally gets in, it takes him another
five minutes to get the key in the ignition.
Meanwhile, everybody else leaves the bar and
drives off.

When he finally pulls away, the cop is waiting
for him, pulls him over, and gives him a
Breathalyser test.

The test shows he has a blood alcohol level of 0.0.
The cop says, ‘How is this possible?’

The guy says, ‘Tonight I’m the designated decoy.’

***

A Brit, an Irishman, and a Scot go out to a pub
and order 3 pints. They each find a fly floating
on the top of their mugs.

The Brit pushes the glass aside, and demands another.

The Irishman says, “Get out of there!” and flicks
the fly away with a finger.

The Scot picks up the fly with his fingers, gives it
a wee bit of a squeeze and says,
“Alright, spit it out now, ya little bastard!”

***

Drive carefully: 90% of people in this world are
caused by accidents.

 

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April A To Z – By way of G

April Challenge

I’ve gone and got to G.  What shall I gab about?   I’ve got it!

Letter G

GUNS, GOD AND GRAVESTONES

Any of you who may feel that all three of the above are connected, haven’t been paying attention to the filing system inside my head.

Colt 1911

I don’t give a shit what the Nervous-Nellie, conservative, reactionary do-gooders claim. Guns don’t kill people! Guns don’t kill people any more than hammers build houses.  People kill people when the wrong people get ahold of guns.  I know of guns that are older than I am, and the only thing they’ve ever done is put holes in pieces of paper.

The wrong people get hold of guns when gutless Gus thinks he hears a burglar, and hides a rifle under the bed, and his 4-year-old ‘pretends’ to shoot the neighbor kid – when an armed Security Guard is too lazy to store his gun in his house, or at least in his car’s trunk, and lets his girlfriend and her 6-year-old use the car, and it slides out from under the front seat – when a lady shopper leaves a loaded, cocked pistol in her purse, next to her child in a shopping cart.

We don’t need ‘Gun Control.’ We need people control! We need  background checks, waiting periods, licensing, gun handling and storage safety training, and – instead of emotional, hand-wringing histrionics – an ongoing campaign like we have for smoking in public, or drunk driving, to get people to think, (Could happen) and take their guns, and their control of them, seriously.

OH GOD

God is!….And all the rest of you are wrong.

In the beginning, God created Man – and immediately, every Man created the God which best suited his selfish needs and mistaken beliefs.

The Muslim God is different from the Jewish God.   The Jewish God is not the same as the Christian God.  The Roman Catholic God is not the same as the God of the Greek Orthodox Church – and neither is the same as the Russian Orthodox God.

The Catholic God differs from the Protestant God, and the God of each of over 42,000 Protestant sects varies widely and wildly from the Catholics’– and from each other. In every case, at least one of them must be wrong.

‘Your God’ is a mean, vicious, vengeful, violent God, who would torture me for eternity for respecting all humans and their rights, even if some of them are gay, whereas ‘my God’ is loving, forgiving and inclusive.

The God of the insecure egotists, ‘sees every sparrow fall,’ but they fail to notice that the Bible doesn’t say anything about Him actually doing anything about it. If a greater being created the universe, It is not the God of the egotists’ dreams. It regards this little ball of rock called Earth like an ant-farm, mildly interesting at times, but not worth interfering with, no matter how much they vainly pray.

None of us have enough brains to know what an infinite ‘God’ thinks and wants, but too many of us also don’t have enough brains to keep our mouth shut, and prove our ignorance.

ENGRAVED IN STONE

I’m not going to get stoned – even though it sometimes looks like I am, when I write.

My maternal grandparents lie side-by-side in a double plot, in the old section of my home-town cemetery. Someone in the family must have had some money.  A four-foot high white marble obelisk sits on a sandstone plinth at their heads, with all biographical data professionally and artistically carved in.

Ever the prepared planner, my Mother arranged and paid for all funeral details long before she and Dad died. They (which may mean she) opted for cremation.  They purchased a single plot, and had their urns buried at each of the top corners.  There’s room for four more urns – two on the sides, and two at the bottom.

In the new cemetery section, the rule is that all gravestones must be flush with the earth, for ease of groundskeeping. They put two small sandstone slabs (about 8” square) over the urns, with only their names, and the word ‘husband’ or ‘wife’, no dates of birth or death.

Not exactly welcoming the inevitable, but like Mom, knowing that it should be planned for, I recently had a conversation with my younger brother. Since there’s room at Mom and Dad’s plot, did he plan to be cremated and buried with them?

No more religious than I am, he surprised me with a vehement refusal. No cremation for him!  He plans to be buried the old-fashioned way – embalming, body in a coffin, coffin in the ground.  He’s going to buy a single plot, and have a stone about a quarter of the surface area laid over him.

Like my Mother, I am not a believer in physical resurrection. I also want to be cremated.  The whole process, from beginning to end (actually, from my ending, to the delivery of the urn by Amazon drone) is about $2000/$2500.

I see no reason to rob my heirs of what little I can leave them, by purchasing a plot of land I don’t need, and a chunk of stone that, eventually, no-one will visit. I will be given, probably to my daughter, as a bagful of bonemeal fertilizer that she can sprinkle in her garden, and I will be resurrected as a rosebush, or a lilac tree. (Although, with my luck, I’ll come back as crabgrass.)  That’s the true ‘Circle of Life!’

Being Canadian

Canadian Flag

 

 

 

 

 

Recently, there was a viral media story about an immigrant Muslim woman who appeared in court in the province of Quebec.  Her teen-aged son had been pulled over by the police with a suspended licence.  In a case like that, the car is impounded for 30 days.  If someone can show reason to need the car back before that, they have to appeal to the court.

Already, at that point in the story, I was having trouble with it.  Despite the public wanting safer roads by having dangerous drivers taken off them, do you know how hard it is to suspend this teen’s licence??!  As a minor, and a Good Muslim, to whom alcohol is forbidden, was he caught drunk driving?  Has he been convicted of multiple traffic offences, like speeding, racing, leaving the scene of an accident?

On her side, has she been blithely unaware of multiple traffic offences, at least one court case, and the suspension of his licence?  If she was aware of his suspension, did she uncaringly allow him to illegally use the car?

cmu15 0227 Hijab 12b.JPG

 

 

 

 

 

When she appeared before the judge, a lovely lady judge, she did so with her Muslim tea-towel wrapped around her head.  The female judge told her that she would have to remove her head covering, as a mark of respect for both the judge, and the court.  Things like scarves and sunglasses were not allowed, and must be removed, or her case would not be heard.

She chose to leave the court without recovering her car.  Instead of hiring a lawyer, she chose to arrange a pity party news conference.  Instead of claiming religious discrimination, she told enthralled TV and print reporters that she had worn her dish rag when she became a Canadian citizen, and now the judge had made her feel like she was not a true Canadian citizen.  Wah, wah, wah!    😦

The judge had already told her that scarves and sunglasses were not allowed.  Canadian-type rednecks, with tattoos and 2-digit IQs, are told to remove their ball caps.  These rules apply to everyone.  The closest she came to playing the religion card was to claim that Jewish men were not forced to remove their yarmulkes.

For pious Jewish men, the wearing of the yarmulke is a decreed portion of their religious observance.  Her wearing of some window curtain is merely personal preference, not a dogmatic Muslim tenet.  I now wear my glasses at all times, yet when I go to have my passport photo taken, I am told to remove them for better identification.

She whined about not feeling like a “real Canadian”, yet every member of every level of ‘Canadian’ police, every ‘Canadian’ EMT tech, every ‘Canadian’ firefighter, and every member of ‘Canadian’ Armed Forces, male and FEMALE, remove their head covering in court.  That’s what “real Canadians” do, they show respect, and they obey the law.

Militant Islamism is more dangerous, but this type of Muslimism is more insidious.  Many Muslims come to North America with the honest hope for a better way of life.  Far too many though, come here saying they want a change, but the only change they want is to our way of life.  They play the long game.  They plow their twisted view of the Koran, and sow our welcoming multiculturalism, so that they can eventually reap the crop of the universal Caliphate.

Niagara bridge

 

 

 

 

This woman is no more a ‘real Canadian’ than the two, fortunately inept, terrorists who were going to dump a Niagara train and bridge into the gorge.  She’s just more subtle and long-range manipulative about it.  Sadly, there are too many politicians loaded with gullibility and White Man’s Guilt, who will feel sorry for her.

An Englishman arrives at his mate’s flat, to find him desperately packing. “Where are you goin’, an’ why??” “Well, it’s about homosexuals!” “What about ‘em?’ “Two hundred years ago, if you were gay, you were hanged, drawn and quartered.  A hundred and fifty years ago, you were flogged and sent to a penal colony.  A hundred years ago, you went to prison for life.  Fifty years ago, it changed to ‘live and let live’.  A few years ago, that became ‘Don’t ask – don’t tell.  I’m gettin’ to Hell out, before it becomes mandatory!”

Only three days after her little video went viral, she had crowd-sourced $20,000 to pay for a lawyer to represent her, to thumb her nose at Canadian traditions and the legal system.  I don’t know if I’ll be more disappointed to find that the bulk of the funds came from apologetic Christians, or hard-core Muslims, financing the firm insertion of the thin edge of the wedge.  Sharia law, here we come!

 

Minutia V

one shot

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been slowly working my way up through the list of Lee Child’s Jack Reacher books, a fact that those of you who had to wade through three of my “Book Reviews (?)”, are aware of.  I’ve read the first ten, with another ten ahead of me.  The next on my list is One Shot, the book that was made into a movie, and started me on this quest.

I recently picked up four books in the series, all on the same day.  I stopped on my way to the Farmers’ Market, to take some cash out of the bank.  The branch was having a fund-raising program, which included donated books for sale.  There was a decent copy of one title – for $2.

At the market, the wife and I visited the Used Book Lady.  She doesn’t often get Lee Child books, and they disappear quickly, but two had just come in, and she remembered my interest, so she held them for me.  She sells second-hand books $4/ea., or 3/$10.  Along with another author’s book, I now had two more at $3.33/ea.

On the way home, I stopped at a Chapters bookstore and bought the next one I needed in the series.  Piggybacking on the son’s discount card, the $10 book cost me $8.

I recently published a post, critical of the French culture and language – only because they deserve it.  The language illustrates how entitled and impatient the French are.  In English, we are content to watch, to see what the time is.  A French wristwatch is a montre-bracelet – a show me timepiece.  R.F.N!   👿

In English, we let the good times roll, and often translate that as “laisser rouler les bon temps.”  But in correct French, they insist, fait rouler des bon temps – make to roll (some of) the good times.

I’m glad to hear that stupidity still carries the death penalty.  The first selfie suicide (at least the first one I’ve heard of) has occurred.  Some macho goof in Mexico held a gun to his own head and his cell phone camera out at arm’s length, and snapped a photo.  The camera flash startled him, his finger involuntarily twitched, and the pic includes brain, bone and blood.

A tourist couple in Portugal, climbed over a barricade and past signs in three languages that said, Don’t Go Here, Fool!, to get a better view of the ocean, 140 meters ( 460 feet) below.  They backed up to the edge for a photo, witnesses say that one of them stumbled, and they both plunged off the cliff while their horrified children watched.

Not to be outdone, there was a large outdoor concert in Toronto this summer.  Somehow, two different types of recreational drugs got spilled on the ground, solid tablets, and powder-filled capsules.  Concert-goers snatched them up and swallowed them.  The final count was two dead, and thirteen in serious condition in hospital.  Not content to merely ingest unidentified chemicals, one of the dead is said to have swallowed at least ten of the pills.

And, the stupidity rolls on!  In an attempt to close the barn door after the horses have died, the police issued a request that anyone who purchased drugs at the concert, but had not consumed them, could surrender them to police, and no charges would be laid.  Orrrr…you could just throw them in the garbage, or flush them down the toilet, and no-one would know.

About a year ago, I included a story about an alcoholic, DUI Paki.  He’d had six or more convictions for drunk driving.  He’d caused several accidents, and driven away from most of them.  He threatened the cop who arrested him, in court, and told the judge that he would just go out and drive drunk again.  His excuse (there is no excuse for this behavior) was his first name.  He was Sukhvinder, and all the white kids had made fun of him and his name.

Recently, a drunken Paki named Sukhvinder drove an oversized dump truck onto a bridge on the main (only) major highway between Toronto and Buffalo, with the dump box fully raised, and ran into the overhead support beams.  The bridge was closed for four days, with heavy traffic going through residential areas, while the damage – considerable – was assessed.

I almost hate to think that this is just a coincidence in names of drunken Pakis.  If this is the same guy, we can now charge him with reckless endangerment and either throw him in jail, or deport him.  Maybe Sukhvinder is a common Paki name.  Maybe they all drive drunk.  I read a story about the legal problems of an actor named Vincent D’Onofrio.  Aha, says I.  I know him from Law and Order.  Apparently I didn’t.  Believe it or else, there’s another actor named Vincent D’Onofrio.

Speaking of names – again….  The Indian reservation just outside my home town, fronts on Lake Huron.  Its backside nestles against the Saugeen River.  The road signs on the highway declare it to be Chippewa Hill.  So the Indians in it are….Ojibwa??!

The little city on the other side of the Bruce Peninsula has two rivers which run into the bay.  The Sydenham, a good British stream, from the east, and the Pottawatomi from the west.  There is a Pottawatomi Indian tribe….just north of Kansas City, a thousand miles away.  Did one of them drunk-ride his horse all the way up here?

Children Of A Lesser….God!

My headstrong sister married extremely young.  Threatening my mother that, if not allowed to wed, she’d just go get pregnant, she had not had her 16th birthday when she said “I Do”.  Small, like my mother, she was just five feet tall, and barely a hundred pounds.  She immediately started popping out babies, dropping five kids in under eight years, the last of which was a 13 pound, 9 ounce Butterball that solved her fertility problem.  It also set a record for the largest baby ever delivered in the local hospital, a record that stood for twenty years, until an Indian woman, twice her size, had one 14 lb., 1 oz.

Her kids came, boy, girl, girl, girl, boy.  She came to know and be friends with another local girl who got married about the same time, but at a more reasonable age.  She also had five kids, at just about the same times my sister did, but she had boy, boy, boy, boy, boy!  In a fit of creative imagination, she named them Derek, Douglas, David, Duane and Darcy.

Snide comments went around town that someone had ripped up a baby-names book and one page, the one with names that started with D, had blown into her yard.  At least her name didn’t start with D.  She’s a piker compared to Mother Kardashian.  Starting with her own K-name, Kris, she had girls with the famous lawyer, and named them Kim, Khloe, Kourtney, Kremlin and Katarrh.  Then she married Bruce Jenner, and inflicted Kylie and Kendall on the world.  Come on woman, there are 25 other letters in the alphabet.

My sister was far too self-involved, and far too young to be a good mother.  She wanted to be an Earth-mother, hippie, party-girl.  The kids soon learned to rely on themselves and each other.  With next to no supervision, especially early in the day, things happened which made the rest of us wonder how they ever lived to grow up.

When the two younger girls were about 6 and 5, they each drank about a cup of Javex.  Off to the hospital to have stomachs pumped and charcoal treatment.  Too young to explain why they drank Javex, it was thought that partly full glasses of liquor and beer from last night’s party, that they saw adults drinking from, might have been the impetus.  That could explain getting past the smell and horrid taste.

A year later, the younger one, now all of six, decided to drink another cup of Javex again.  One would think that the memory of getting a stomach pumped would stay with even the dumbest child, but apparently not.  Because of all the pregnancies, the sister had constipation problems.  One day she went to the pharmacy and got a 36-piece block of chocolate-coated Ex-Lax.  To keep it out of children’s hands, she stood on a chair, climbed onto the kitchen counter and put it on the eight-foot-high top shelf.  Little jugs have big ears….and keen sight.  The next day, the same pair of tiny geniuses, pulled out four drawers, like stairs, climbed the shelves like a ladder, and ate 18 pieces of Ex-Lax each.  Warm up the stomach-pump again Doc, we’ll be there in a minute!

The rear entrance went down seven steps from the kitchen to a coat-closet landing, then out the back door to a tiny porch, and down two more stairs.  The porch had no railing and five kids and three dogs often just jumped off.  In the days of home delivery of milk in glass bottles, that’s where the empties were left.  It was not unusual to have a pile of broken glass beneath the porch edge.  One day, the oldest daughter, all of about 10, came skipping out and bounced off the porch, catching the toes of both feet on the edge.  Down she went, knees-first into a pool of broken glass.  The doctor put in almost 100 stitches in the two legs, and marveled that no ligaments were severed and the niece would still walk.

With great planning and forethought the sister often realized at 4:45 P.M. that she had nothing for supper.  She would pile the kids in the car and race downtown to get something from the store.  She always put my oldest nephew in the back seat, behind her.  They lived in the company house, off the back of the employee parking lot.  Always an aggressive driver, she would race the hundred yards to the highway, which she had a clear view of.  If there were no cars close, she would hang a hard right, at up to 30 MPH.

Before seatbelts, the problem was that the back left door on the junker they drove, would not latch.  The lock button had to be pushed to ensure the door stayed closed.  At least three times she forgot to lock it, and at least three times, the door popped open and the 8/9 year-old nephew flew out, rolling across in front of oncoming highway traffic, and ended up in the ditch on the far side of the road.  She’d stop, pick him up, brush dust off, stick him back in the car, and do the same thing six months later.

Two things my sister never did were, keep booze away from the kids, and take the keys out of her car.  For a while, after he got his licence, the older nephew would knock some back and, in a feat of good planning, he would borrow his mother’s car.  One time, he made it almost a block down the side road before a power pole jumped out in front of him, and he totalled both it and the car.  He walked home, fell asleep and didn’t remember when his mom asked him where her car was.

Another time, he was a couple of miles down the beach road when he and a carload of friends fell into a ditch and hit a concrete culvert, totalling a second car.  A year later, almost 19, and at least sober, he took a bunch of friends for a ride.  Travelling way too fast on a twisty road, he pulled out to pass a car he thought was going too slow.  At his speed, he’d have made it, except for the guy who pulled out of a driveway ahead, on his left, and headed straight toward him.  They both swerved toward the same shallow ditch, and the head-on collision didn’t block the highway.  It did, however, break both thumbs of the Air Canada pilot in the other car.

I’ve blogged about a cartoon character named Joe Bfytzplk, who had a permanent little cloud over his head.  These kids and their exploits (?) were almost enough to get me to believe in guardian angels.

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.