Don't you just hate people who talk on their cell phones while they drive? Blindly babbling away, not paying attention to the road, endangering everyone nearby … so inconsiderate.
Anyway, today while I was chatting on the phone and driving to the dentist, I got a tiny bit distracted and turned onto the wrong road … twice. But I cleverly figured out a shortcut back to where I belonged and pulled into the parking lot right on time. Unfortunately, it was the parking lot at my doctor's office, not my dentist's.
Now, I've always been a little reluctant to go to the dentist. When I was young, they used to lie to me to get me there. Of course once I knew what was happening I would throw a crying fit — in the car on the way to the dentist, in the elevator on the way up to the office, in the waiting room, in the dentist's chair throughout the entire visit, in the office while my mother paid, in the elevator on the way down, in the car on the way home, and once again when my father came home that night just to be sure everyone knew how I felt about it.
My mother was afraid of the dentist. And she shared that fear and its effects with her children. She picked our dentist based solely on the fact that he would give her lots of Novocain. Lots of Novocain. Much Novocain. Beyond that, she never really bothered about the skills-as-a-dentist thing.
My own theory is that dentistry was invented by Beelzebub, based largely on the fact that our dentist looked exactly the way I imagined a Devil's minion would look. And, oh, by the way, when we were finally done and wanted nothing more than to run as fast and as far as possible, he would smile at us kids, with his coke-bottle-thick glasses making him look popeyed, and hand us each a lollipop. Maybe not the best dentist, but surely a clever businessman lining up return customers.
Today, even after better dentists have shown me that there may possibly be some redeeming value in dental care, I still get a bit unsettled before an appointment. Therefore, I have two things to say about the cell phone thing:
1) It might have been the fact of going to the dentist that distracted me and not the cell phone. I think, maybe, my subconscious was trying to get me to go to the wrong place and miss my appointment completely. Self-protection is a very powerful instinct in times of peril. That could explain it.
2) If it was the cell phone use, I think I deserve an exemption from condemnation because, after all, I was on my way to the dentist. Maybe I wouldn't have been able to talk again when I came out. One little slip of the drill and, oops. Or I could have choked on one of the forty appliances they had crammed into my mouth just before asking me how I was doing.
Either way, I feel completely justified in continuing to judge others if they use a cell phone while driving. Unless, of course, I learn that they were on their way to the dentist.
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta humor. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta humor. Mostrar todas las entradas
domingo, 14 de noviembre de 2010
Canada In Secret Talks To Trade Quebec For Florida
History does not record the existence of a single Canadian who has not wished his nation had a bit of tropical diversity.
As chilliness North of Niagara would have it, Ottawa has had an ongoing freeze-on, freeze-off relationship with the relatively trendy Province of Quebec, that charming faux-French survival of the Sun King’s proud misjudgments about the importance of the new world.
Now, Canadian legislators have given voice to the sunny idea, Let’s see if we can swap the independent-minded province for Florida.
The offer comes at a particularly opportune time, as a result of the unusually severe hurricanes that have been selecting the Sunshine State as a favorite destination.
The Bush administration has agreed to consider the proposal but admits that there are certain difficulties. For instance, the President will have to explain to his brother and closet presidential wannabe, Jeb, that he’s now a Canadian and can no longer run for President.
To make the loss of their palm-treed haven more palatable to Americans, the Canadians have volunteered to teach everybody in Florida how to speak French. Once, they reason, Florida is enlivened with the sounds of bon jour and merci beaucoup, the switch will seem as uneventful as just swapping one champagne and brie festooned place for another.
As chilliness North of Niagara would have it, Ottawa has had an ongoing freeze-on, freeze-off relationship with the relatively trendy Province of Quebec, that charming faux-French survival of the Sun King’s proud misjudgments about the importance of the new world.
Now, Canadian legislators have given voice to the sunny idea, Let’s see if we can swap the independent-minded province for Florida.
The offer comes at a particularly opportune time, as a result of the unusually severe hurricanes that have been selecting the Sunshine State as a favorite destination.
The Bush administration has agreed to consider the proposal but admits that there are certain difficulties. For instance, the President will have to explain to his brother and closet presidential wannabe, Jeb, that he’s now a Canadian and can no longer run for President.
To make the loss of their palm-treed haven more palatable to Americans, the Canadians have volunteered to teach everybody in Florida how to speak French. Once, they reason, Florida is enlivened with the sounds of bon jour and merci beaucoup, the switch will seem as uneventful as just swapping one champagne and brie festooned place for another.
sábado, 13 de noviembre de 2010
Book Of Judas Finds Publisher; Record Wait Took 1700 Years
The Book of Judas, penned by the much maligned apostle himself, has finally found a publisher, at the end of a long search that ended at The National Geographic Society.
No, it’s not Random House or Knopf. But, hey, after a 1700-year wait, any publisher is bound to come as good news.
Now, Judas can at long last be assured that the world will know his side of the story, in which he portrays himself, as author’s are prone to do, in a much more favorable light than tradition has placed him. According to the author, while he was the apostle who betrayed Jesus, he was actually Christ’s favorite apostle and was chosen by Jesus to do the reprehensible deed, so Jesus could fulfill what he considered to be his destiny.
So, as if we didn’t have enough reconsider, now we have to reevaluate our estimate of Judas. Was he really just being Christ’s obedient assistant?
We must sympathize with the most devout adherents to the New Testament. What are they to make of Judas’s revised version of the betrayal?
We assume there will be no shortage of debate.
Nor can we, even if we wish, refuse to acknowledge that a certain reluctance to accept the new author’s version will be due to the unfortunate timing of the publication, since the hopes of the world are presently encumbered by the recent parade of people in the Middle East who seem to think that their destiny requires them to seek their own deaths.
No doubt the author would have preferred a more auspicious time for his book to appear, ideally, of course, way back when it might still have at least have had some chance of getting into The Bible.
No, it’s not Random House or Knopf. But, hey, after a 1700-year wait, any publisher is bound to come as good news.
Now, Judas can at long last be assured that the world will know his side of the story, in which he portrays himself, as author’s are prone to do, in a much more favorable light than tradition has placed him. According to the author, while he was the apostle who betrayed Jesus, he was actually Christ’s favorite apostle and was chosen by Jesus to do the reprehensible deed, so Jesus could fulfill what he considered to be his destiny.
So, as if we didn’t have enough reconsider, now we have to reevaluate our estimate of Judas. Was he really just being Christ’s obedient assistant?
We must sympathize with the most devout adherents to the New Testament. What are they to make of Judas’s revised version of the betrayal?
We assume there will be no shortage of debate.
Nor can we, even if we wish, refuse to acknowledge that a certain reluctance to accept the new author’s version will be due to the unfortunate timing of the publication, since the hopes of the world are presently encumbered by the recent parade of people in the Middle East who seem to think that their destiny requires them to seek their own deaths.
No doubt the author would have preferred a more auspicious time for his book to appear, ideally, of course, way back when it might still have at least have had some chance of getting into The Bible.
Birds of a Feather
Birds of a Feather
1. Which is not a group term for birds?
A. Flock
B. Flight
C. Volery
D. Swarm
D. Swarm
TBD: Various insects can collectively be called a swarm but not birds!
2. Which of these is a fear of birds?
A. Alektorophobia
B. Astraphobia
C. Ornithophobia
D. Ouranophobia
C. Ornithophobia
TBD: Although alektorophobia was close, that is a fear of chickens! Astraphobia is the fear of lightning and Ouranophobia is the fear of heaven!
3. Which bird is NOT a bird of prey?
A. Falcon
B. Francolin
C. Hobby
D. Kestrel
B. Francolin
TBD: Any of various Eurasian or African birds of the genus Francolinus, related to and resembling the quails and partridges, which are actually the intended victims of birds of prey!
4. What is the collective name for crows?
A. A murder
B. A clutch
C. A clutter
D. A Sleuth
A. A murder
TBD: You can have a clutch of chicks, a clutter of cats, and a sleuth of bears, if anyone was wondering.
5. What is the largest living species of bird?
A. Condor
B. Eagle
C. Ostrich
D. Emu
C. Ostrich
TBD: Did you know they are omnivorous, eating grass, foliage, and any small animals they can chase down?
6. The Trochildae family of birds shares what trait?
A. They are the smallest birds
B. They are flightless birds
C. They are birds of prey
D. They are featherless birds
A. They are the smallest birds
TBD: This family includes the hummingbird.
7. Which is NOT a proper name for a group of ducks?
A. Brace
B. Flock
C. Skein
D. Team
C. Skein
TBD: Actually that was pretty tricky as you can have a skein of geese…
8. How many eyelids do birds have?
A. None
B. One
C. Two
D. Three
D. Three
TBD: They have an upper lid resembling that of humans, a lower lid that closes when a bird sleeps, and a third lid, called a nictitating membrane, that sweeps across the eye sideways, starting from the side near the beak. This lid is a thin, translucent fold of skin that moistens and cleans the eye and protects it from wind and bright light.
9. Seabirds have the longest migration patterns. How long can these trips get?
A. 20,000 miles
B. 10,000 miles
C. 5,000 miles
D. 1,000 miles
A. 20,000 miles
TBD: That's further than many humans travel in their lifetime!
10. Can you guess how many known species of birds there are?
A. 100
B. 1,000
C. 10,000
D. 100,000
C. 10,000
TBD: This includes all modern or recently extinct species.
1. Which is not a group term for birds?
A. Flock
B. Flight
C. Volery
D. Swarm
D. Swarm
TBD: Various insects can collectively be called a swarm but not birds!
2. Which of these is a fear of birds?
A. Alektorophobia
B. Astraphobia
C. Ornithophobia
D. Ouranophobia
C. Ornithophobia
TBD: Although alektorophobia was close, that is a fear of chickens! Astraphobia is the fear of lightning and Ouranophobia is the fear of heaven!
3. Which bird is NOT a bird of prey?
A. Falcon
B. Francolin
C. Hobby
D. Kestrel
B. Francolin
TBD: Any of various Eurasian or African birds of the genus Francolinus, related to and resembling the quails and partridges, which are actually the intended victims of birds of prey!
4. What is the collective name for crows?
A. A murder
B. A clutch
C. A clutter
D. A Sleuth
A. A murder
TBD: You can have a clutch of chicks, a clutter of cats, and a sleuth of bears, if anyone was wondering.
5. What is the largest living species of bird?
A. Condor
B. Eagle
C. Ostrich
D. Emu
C. Ostrich
TBD: Did you know they are omnivorous, eating grass, foliage, and any small animals they can chase down?
6. The Trochildae family of birds shares what trait?
A. They are the smallest birds
B. They are flightless birds
C. They are birds of prey
D. They are featherless birds
A. They are the smallest birds
TBD: This family includes the hummingbird.
7. Which is NOT a proper name for a group of ducks?
A. Brace
B. Flock
C. Skein
D. Team
C. Skein
TBD: Actually that was pretty tricky as you can have a skein of geese…
8. How many eyelids do birds have?
A. None
B. One
C. Two
D. Three
D. Three
TBD: They have an upper lid resembling that of humans, a lower lid that closes when a bird sleeps, and a third lid, called a nictitating membrane, that sweeps across the eye sideways, starting from the side near the beak. This lid is a thin, translucent fold of skin that moistens and cleans the eye and protects it from wind and bright light.
9. Seabirds have the longest migration patterns. How long can these trips get?
A. 20,000 miles
B. 10,000 miles
C. 5,000 miles
D. 1,000 miles
A. 20,000 miles
TBD: That's further than many humans travel in their lifetime!
10. Can you guess how many known species of birds there are?
A. 100
B. 1,000
C. 10,000
D. 100,000
C. 10,000
TBD: This includes all modern or recently extinct species.
Bill Gates to Devote Life To Charity; Make Money And You Can, Too
Bill Gates announced that he will transition out of his day-to-day role at Microsoft by July 2008 in order to spend more time working on the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, which focuses on global health and education.
His announcement reminded us of the plethora of graduation speeches that eager students imbibed across the land this spring. As we listened to the meritorious goals heaped on the recent graduates, so they might achieve goals the speaker’s generation has found impossible, we could not help but think, why doesn’t somebody come out and tell the youthful aspirants what the real challenge is?
Like it or not, today’s world, as well as many another age, is conducted by two primary forces: wealth and power, and, other than resort to firearms, power springs from wealth.
So if you want to influence the ways of this outrageously necessitous world, consider the stark truth that all power springs from the opening in a fat wallet. It's called the economic basis of society but, in its current incarnation, in debilitating excess.
When we were recent graduates, we were not aware of such an uncompromising reality and passed up at least two opportunities to make megabucks because we wanted to preserve our mental energy to expend it toward the achievement of our ideals.
Had we been wiser, we would have set aside a few years to stuff our pockets with power and then, like Mr. Gates, have spent the rest of our days placidly pursuing those still-inspiriting ideals.
So we find ourselves, from our own experience, in the unlikely role of advising the most idealistic to enable their altruism by involving themselves, initially, in the activity they undoubtedly are convinced is not the most inviting.
Then, should you be fortunate enough to enable your financial independence, you may, like Mr. Gates, head off into full-time devotion to your undoubtedly meritorious idealisms.
Well, the speech probably would not have been one that would have inspired the administration to invite us back or that the students would have received with endorsement, but the sharp glass on the road through economic necessity is a fact not lightly to be dismissed. Ignore it and you may step on it with painful frequency.
His announcement reminded us of the plethora of graduation speeches that eager students imbibed across the land this spring. As we listened to the meritorious goals heaped on the recent graduates, so they might achieve goals the speaker’s generation has found impossible, we could not help but think, why doesn’t somebody come out and tell the youthful aspirants what the real challenge is?
Like it or not, today’s world, as well as many another age, is conducted by two primary forces: wealth and power, and, other than resort to firearms, power springs from wealth.
So if you want to influence the ways of this outrageously necessitous world, consider the stark truth that all power springs from the opening in a fat wallet. It's called the economic basis of society but, in its current incarnation, in debilitating excess.
When we were recent graduates, we were not aware of such an uncompromising reality and passed up at least two opportunities to make megabucks because we wanted to preserve our mental energy to expend it toward the achievement of our ideals.
Had we been wiser, we would have set aside a few years to stuff our pockets with power and then, like Mr. Gates, have spent the rest of our days placidly pursuing those still-inspiriting ideals.
So we find ourselves, from our own experience, in the unlikely role of advising the most idealistic to enable their altruism by involving themselves, initially, in the activity they undoubtedly are convinced is not the most inviting.
Then, should you be fortunate enough to enable your financial independence, you may, like Mr. Gates, head off into full-time devotion to your undoubtedly meritorious idealisms.
Well, the speech probably would not have been one that would have inspired the administration to invite us back or that the students would have received with endorsement, but the sharp glass on the road through economic necessity is a fact not lightly to be dismissed. Ignore it and you may step on it with painful frequency.
Bill Clinton In Secret Talks With Hillary; Agrees To Run For Vice President
Former President Bill Clinton has been holding secret talks with his wife and wannabe President Hillary and has, the rumor mill informs us, agreed to be her Vice Presidential candidate.
In an exclusive interview, he confided, “Even though I want to help Hillary in every way I can, it wasn't an easy decision. After all, if you remember, I was the President. But, since I’ll be back in the White House, I decided I would rather have more to keep myself busy than just being America’s First Man."
So, as 2008 draws nigh and the inevitable blizzard of questions to her on who she hopes to name as her running mate go discreetly unanswered, just remember you heard it here first that the resourceful husband and wife team plan to make another run for the White House.
Given the current state of America’s feelings about the comeuppances of the Republican tenure, there is actually a very high likelihood that the dedicated duo could once again be frolicking in the realms of Presidential empowerment. Only this time we would, of course, have President Hillary Clinton and Vice President Bill Clinton.
While Democrats cheer, Republicans may double over with wails of dread, while they reach out with hopeful hands for the now-flirtatious Rudy or the ever-coy Jeb.
In an exclusive interview, he confided, “Even though I want to help Hillary in every way I can, it wasn't an easy decision. After all, if you remember, I was the President. But, since I’ll be back in the White House, I decided I would rather have more to keep myself busy than just being America’s First Man."
So, as 2008 draws nigh and the inevitable blizzard of questions to her on who she hopes to name as her running mate go discreetly unanswered, just remember you heard it here first that the resourceful husband and wife team plan to make another run for the White House.
Given the current state of America’s feelings about the comeuppances of the Republican tenure, there is actually a very high likelihood that the dedicated duo could once again be frolicking in the realms of Presidential empowerment. Only this time we would, of course, have President Hillary Clinton and Vice President Bill Clinton.
While Democrats cheer, Republicans may double over with wails of dread, while they reach out with hopeful hands for the now-flirtatious Rudy or the ever-coy Jeb.
Bat Ejection Techniques – Country Survival Course #27
People lie! They lie about the bliss of rural relocation. They lie about the size of fish they catch. They lie about being there for you. But, mostly, they lie about bats! Such a silly thing, yet no one can admit the ugly truth. “Bats only come into your house. It never happens to me,” friends say. Liars!
Evidence to the contrary exists. Bat visitations have occurred regularly in all three of my country homes. Each was a different style house, in a different town with different surroundings. No way am I the only person this is happening to! I’ll believe the annual summer bat inundation isn’t a part of normal life when butter is fat free and Smucky’s Electric gets back to me with that wiring estimate they promised just prior to the Mammoth die off.
One of my sisters in particular gets a kick out of telling people I am a witch attracting bats to my home like anorexics migrating to the Cannes Film Festival. She does it to be ornery – a competitive sport in my family. Of course, I could get even by pointing out right here in my very public essay that she is my OLDER sister by a DECADE. However, I am too peaceable and well centered for such adolescent behavior. Besides, you are here to learn another fine country skill – the Bat Ejection Technique (BET).
Lesson 1 – Why BET
Rural dwellers should all master BETs. Realtors will never admit to the Coloptera inundation plaguing the West. Property values would tumble! Amidst all this denial, a seamy cover-up has formed. Copies of Bat Removal for Dummies are burned at country BBQs and members of the Society of the Dead Elk deliver bat traps to farms under cover of darkness.
As my town’s resident City Idiot, I chose to break ranks. If Cidiots are not taught to deal properly with winged rodentia, both will suffer. Bats will be ‘baseballed’ into walls with brooms. If not, Cidiot homes will overflow with wiggling blankets of screeching critters. Folks will be driven back to the burbs in droves. Quite selfishly - I need newbies to stay in the country. Please don’t leave me alone out here! Take notes.
Lesson 2 - History of the BET
For whatever reasons bats enter homes in pairs. My hypothesis is; one holds the dog door open while the other flies through and vise versa. Attempts to document this behavior have been hampered by the presence of innumerable dogs kissing my eyes shut when I stake out the laundry room floor. Nonetheless, like bats to Noah’s ark, they arrive by twos.
Throughout history Novice Bat Ejectors dispelled unwanted intruders with the pacifistic Zero Interference Technique (ZIT). For a true ZIT open all windows and doors and cower on the floor waiting for the bats to fly back out. I researched the effectiveness of this method at my first country home. There are three problems with this technique:
Bats never leave as easily as they enter. A person could learn Arabic before the ZIT clears matters up.
Heat leaves houses quite quickly resulting in cold ZITs.
Bats tend to turn up in the middle of the night. Sleep deprivation is a direct side effect of ZITs.
Lesson 3 – Modernization
Athletic newbies frequently combine the open window/door approach of a ZIT with a more proactive approach. They jump around with a blanket in an attempt to herd bats outside. This is the Comforter Herding Ejection Technique (CHET). A good CHET take two people. Even then CHETs are hard.
Bats do not know they shouldn’t fly around the blanket.
The technique is rendered totally ineffective when your husband, who is suppose to hold the opposite side of the blanket, does a “stop, drop and roll” every time he spots a bat from thirty yards away.
At night neighbors can see you, but not the bat. So there you are running amuck in your PJs. The doors and windows are wide open as you spiraling over furniture with your flag-like fabric in tow. Meanwhile your underwear-clad man is having what is apparently some version of repeating epileptic seizures. And you, you cold-hearted bitch, you just keep on dancing.
Lesson 4 – BET Evolution
Bat invasion number three of year number two was a turning point for me. For some bizarre reason I was washing the morning dishes. We must have been out of coffee. Obviously I was not quick-witted enough to get out of dish duty. Suddenly, I heard the high-pitched chatter of a bat straight over my head.
The space over my cabinets is where all my gigantic jelly-making kettles are poised. Grabbing the step stool, I hovered near and listened. Something was in my stoneware – dark, like a cave, the crafty little bugger. Please, don’t let it get airborne. I have to go to town this morning, I thought. There was no time for the traditional CHET dance.
My cerebral light bulb clicked on. Hey, It’s easier to catch bats when they aren’t moving. A Nobel Prize for would be mine. Apparently washing dishes has some net value after all. I slid a plate over the stoneware rim and took my captive out side.
Plate removed, an upside-down shake and plop. The bat was on the ground. I watched for a moment making sure my son’s devil cat did not turn up. Finally, the bat orientated itself and flew off with chatter. Dam, I’m good, I mused. Then I turned and took two steps towards the door. Gasp! Leap! Curse!
Something bad hit my bare foot. Reflexes took over. I went for a field goal. Another bat had been in the jar. Curse! Hebbie Jebies! Will I never learn? Twos, always twos! Scratches, tiny claws on my foot - it was all to early. First dishes, then this.
The traumatized bat landed several feet away. It took a good five minutes before the winged menace recovered enough to fly off. Headed for town, I left a note for my son. “Finish the dishes.”
Lesson 5 – BET Mastery
I learned two things that morning. First, generic dish soap sucks. Second, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. Chasing them in flight is a fool’s game. In retrospect Samuel, my Great Pyrenees, had attempted to point this out earlier that spring.
Hearing one of the midnight riots, I ordered all my dogs out. There was no need to look for the cause. I knew by then what the combination of barking and a synchronized chase meant at 1 a.m. Ho hum, more bats in the house. The other dogs complied. Sam however stood there looking sleepy, stubborn, sad and guilty.
Anyone who owns a Pyrenees knows this is their natural state. Just as I demanded, “Samuel, go!” I spotted the diminutive little wing sticking out from under his massive front paw. Here Mom, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. He is a genius!
BET Summary
Grab a teacup or the aquarium net and a saucer
Wait for a landing
Cup/net over the Bat
Saucer or magazine carefully slid under
Out the door it goes
Hee Haw! With practice you’ll be back in bed before the underwear-clad epileptic knows your gone. You can BET on it.
Evidence to the contrary exists. Bat visitations have occurred regularly in all three of my country homes. Each was a different style house, in a different town with different surroundings. No way am I the only person this is happening to! I’ll believe the annual summer bat inundation isn’t a part of normal life when butter is fat free and Smucky’s Electric gets back to me with that wiring estimate they promised just prior to the Mammoth die off.
One of my sisters in particular gets a kick out of telling people I am a witch attracting bats to my home like anorexics migrating to the Cannes Film Festival. She does it to be ornery – a competitive sport in my family. Of course, I could get even by pointing out right here in my very public essay that she is my OLDER sister by a DECADE. However, I am too peaceable and well centered for such adolescent behavior. Besides, you are here to learn another fine country skill – the Bat Ejection Technique (BET).
Lesson 1 – Why BET
Rural dwellers should all master BETs. Realtors will never admit to the Coloptera inundation plaguing the West. Property values would tumble! Amidst all this denial, a seamy cover-up has formed. Copies of Bat Removal for Dummies are burned at country BBQs and members of the Society of the Dead Elk deliver bat traps to farms under cover of darkness.
As my town’s resident City Idiot, I chose to break ranks. If Cidiots are not taught to deal properly with winged rodentia, both will suffer. Bats will be ‘baseballed’ into walls with brooms. If not, Cidiot homes will overflow with wiggling blankets of screeching critters. Folks will be driven back to the burbs in droves. Quite selfishly - I need newbies to stay in the country. Please don’t leave me alone out here! Take notes.
Lesson 2 - History of the BET
For whatever reasons bats enter homes in pairs. My hypothesis is; one holds the dog door open while the other flies through and vise versa. Attempts to document this behavior have been hampered by the presence of innumerable dogs kissing my eyes shut when I stake out the laundry room floor. Nonetheless, like bats to Noah’s ark, they arrive by twos.
Throughout history Novice Bat Ejectors dispelled unwanted intruders with the pacifistic Zero Interference Technique (ZIT). For a true ZIT open all windows and doors and cower on the floor waiting for the bats to fly back out. I researched the effectiveness of this method at my first country home. There are three problems with this technique:
Bats never leave as easily as they enter. A person could learn Arabic before the ZIT clears matters up.
Heat leaves houses quite quickly resulting in cold ZITs.
Bats tend to turn up in the middle of the night. Sleep deprivation is a direct side effect of ZITs.
Lesson 3 – Modernization
Athletic newbies frequently combine the open window/door approach of a ZIT with a more proactive approach. They jump around with a blanket in an attempt to herd bats outside. This is the Comforter Herding Ejection Technique (CHET). A good CHET take two people. Even then CHETs are hard.
Bats do not know they shouldn’t fly around the blanket.
The technique is rendered totally ineffective when your husband, who is suppose to hold the opposite side of the blanket, does a “stop, drop and roll” every time he spots a bat from thirty yards away.
At night neighbors can see you, but not the bat. So there you are running amuck in your PJs. The doors and windows are wide open as you spiraling over furniture with your flag-like fabric in tow. Meanwhile your underwear-clad man is having what is apparently some version of repeating epileptic seizures. And you, you cold-hearted bitch, you just keep on dancing.
Lesson 4 – BET Evolution
Bat invasion number three of year number two was a turning point for me. For some bizarre reason I was washing the morning dishes. We must have been out of coffee. Obviously I was not quick-witted enough to get out of dish duty. Suddenly, I heard the high-pitched chatter of a bat straight over my head.
The space over my cabinets is where all my gigantic jelly-making kettles are poised. Grabbing the step stool, I hovered near and listened. Something was in my stoneware – dark, like a cave, the crafty little bugger. Please, don’t let it get airborne. I have to go to town this morning, I thought. There was no time for the traditional CHET dance.
My cerebral light bulb clicked on. Hey, It’s easier to catch bats when they aren’t moving. A Nobel Prize for would be mine. Apparently washing dishes has some net value after all. I slid a plate over the stoneware rim and took my captive out side.
Plate removed, an upside-down shake and plop. The bat was on the ground. I watched for a moment making sure my son’s devil cat did not turn up. Finally, the bat orientated itself and flew off with chatter. Dam, I’m good, I mused. Then I turned and took two steps towards the door. Gasp! Leap! Curse!
Something bad hit my bare foot. Reflexes took over. I went for a field goal. Another bat had been in the jar. Curse! Hebbie Jebies! Will I never learn? Twos, always twos! Scratches, tiny claws on my foot - it was all to early. First dishes, then this.
The traumatized bat landed several feet away. It took a good five minutes before the winged menace recovered enough to fly off. Headed for town, I left a note for my son. “Finish the dishes.”
Lesson 5 – BET Mastery
I learned two things that morning. First, generic dish soap sucks. Second, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. Chasing them in flight is a fool’s game. In retrospect Samuel, my Great Pyrenees, had attempted to point this out earlier that spring.
Hearing one of the midnight riots, I ordered all my dogs out. There was no need to look for the cause. I knew by then what the combination of barking and a synchronized chase meant at 1 a.m. Ho hum, more bats in the house. The other dogs complied. Sam however stood there looking sleepy, stubborn, sad and guilty.
Anyone who owns a Pyrenees knows this is their natural state. Just as I demanded, “Samuel, go!” I spotted the diminutive little wing sticking out from under his massive front paw. Here Mom, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. He is a genius!
BET Summary
Grab a teacup or the aquarium net and a saucer
Wait for a landing
Cup/net over the Bat
Saucer or magazine carefully slid under
Out the door it goes
Hee Haw! With practice you’ll be back in bed before the underwear-clad epileptic knows your gone. You can BET on it.
viernes, 12 de noviembre de 2010
Basketball For Short People: Basket To Be Lowered
Since the 1950s, when short but fast players had a chance of making it onto a professional court – such as the legendary Bob Cousy of the Boston Celtics, known for startling innovations like dribbling and passing behind the back – the sport has been dominated by ever taller athletes, starting with the arrival of Wilt, The Stilt, Chamberlain.
Now, The National Basketball Association has come to realize that the trend to tall has demoralized people of who fall within the usual range of human height and that it has positively devastated short people.
Compared to the slam-dunking ways of the seven footers, these distressed athletes just can’t get people interested in watching them hoop it up. As a result, interest in the game as a participation sport has waned, and the association is concerned that, as fewer people work up their excitement about playing it, fewer of them will pay to see it.
In an effort to return basketball to the widely poplar place it held in the minds and hearts of the American public before it became the exclusive province of players whose mothers are suspected of stretching them as infants, the association is considering legitimizing a court just for people of average height, with a special accommodation for shorter people. The basic plan calls for the basket to be lowered by one foot for players from 5’ 6” to 6’ 6” and two feet for people who are even shorter but still imagine slam-dunking the ball and hanging from the hoop in a celebratory manner.
When the new rules go into effect, virtually everyone will finally be able to play the game in as dramatic a fashion as today’s seven footers.
For now the plan calls for limiting the innovation to amateur players, but the association confides that if fans once again take an interest in watching average-size people play the game, there is the potential to establish an entire new league, made up of speed merchants who are only eye-high to a current pro’s elbows.
Now, The National Basketball Association has come to realize that the trend to tall has demoralized people of who fall within the usual range of human height and that it has positively devastated short people.
Compared to the slam-dunking ways of the seven footers, these distressed athletes just can’t get people interested in watching them hoop it up. As a result, interest in the game as a participation sport has waned, and the association is concerned that, as fewer people work up their excitement about playing it, fewer of them will pay to see it.
In an effort to return basketball to the widely poplar place it held in the minds and hearts of the American public before it became the exclusive province of players whose mothers are suspected of stretching them as infants, the association is considering legitimizing a court just for people of average height, with a special accommodation for shorter people. The basic plan calls for the basket to be lowered by one foot for players from 5’ 6” to 6’ 6” and two feet for people who are even shorter but still imagine slam-dunking the ball and hanging from the hoop in a celebratory manner.
When the new rules go into effect, virtually everyone will finally be able to play the game in as dramatic a fashion as today’s seven footers.
For now the plan calls for limiting the innovation to amateur players, but the association confides that if fans once again take an interest in watching average-size people play the game, there is the potential to establish an entire new league, made up of speed merchants who are only eye-high to a current pro’s elbows.
Baby Boomers Moderate Exercise; Notice Scarcity of Seniors In Marathons
Baby boomers, who exercise more than any generation before them, have been flocking to orthopedic surgeons to tend to their aching tendons and joints.
As news of the growing need for surgical intervention spread, a number of boomers have found the willpower to moderate the intensity of their workout routines.
Personal experience has also confirmed the wisdom of moderation. For example, one inveterate marathoner was shocked by the surprising perception that there were not a lot of senior citizens dashing across the finish line in the New York Marathon.
He began to wonder if at a certain age less strenuous activity might actually be, not only the better part of healthcare, but all that’s generally possible. He also began to ask himself if seniors who persisted in intense physical challenges like the marathon were absent at or near the finish line because they literally dropped by the wayside. He dismissed that possibility, because it really brought into question his hope for up-to-the-last-minute youth.
He shared the possible advisability of moderation with a fellow boomer, who happened to be his girlfriend. She agreed to take it into consideration but required proof of the astonishing comeuppance. So, while working out at her gym, she looked around and noticed, to her amazement, that there were not a lot of seniors sweating along with her, especially on the running track and in the weight room.
Most unsettling of all, she noticed that a confounded lot of the runners looked younger than she did.
She dared to break the stunning revelation to a friend, who told her boyfriend. Since hot news has a way of making it through the boomer vine, soon the bewildered generation was abuzz with the invitation to moderation.
Being serious about their health, many have researched the bone-crushing consequences of persistent over-exercise and have discovered that that they really should take it a little easy on themselves, especially since many of them are flirting with age 60. It seems that if they can persuade themselves of the wisdom at least some moderation they will go a long way toward preserving their knees, ankles, and assorted joints, tendons, and muscles. They could also save on visits to the surgeon.
As expected, however, hard-line boomers are adopting an over-exercise-until-you-drop attitude.
As one recalcitrant member of the group said, “Hey, it’s like exercising came with the genes. I can’t change my routine anymore than I can change my feet, which wake up every morning, ready to run for miles.”
This group is so determined they plan to exercise excessively, even if it means hobbling into old age due to self-inflicted hobbling. As another member of the over-exercise or you’re over-the-hill group stated, ”Look, if I’m going to need a knee replacement or two, I might as well be one of the first in my generation to get one.”
As news of the growing need for surgical intervention spread, a number of boomers have found the willpower to moderate the intensity of their workout routines.
Personal experience has also confirmed the wisdom of moderation. For example, one inveterate marathoner was shocked by the surprising perception that there were not a lot of senior citizens dashing across the finish line in the New York Marathon.
He began to wonder if at a certain age less strenuous activity might actually be, not only the better part of healthcare, but all that’s generally possible. He also began to ask himself if seniors who persisted in intense physical challenges like the marathon were absent at or near the finish line because they literally dropped by the wayside. He dismissed that possibility, because it really brought into question his hope for up-to-the-last-minute youth.
He shared the possible advisability of moderation with a fellow boomer, who happened to be his girlfriend. She agreed to take it into consideration but required proof of the astonishing comeuppance. So, while working out at her gym, she looked around and noticed, to her amazement, that there were not a lot of seniors sweating along with her, especially on the running track and in the weight room.
Most unsettling of all, she noticed that a confounded lot of the runners looked younger than she did.
She dared to break the stunning revelation to a friend, who told her boyfriend. Since hot news has a way of making it through the boomer vine, soon the bewildered generation was abuzz with the invitation to moderation.
Being serious about their health, many have researched the bone-crushing consequences of persistent over-exercise and have discovered that that they really should take it a little easy on themselves, especially since many of them are flirting with age 60. It seems that if they can persuade themselves of the wisdom at least some moderation they will go a long way toward preserving their knees, ankles, and assorted joints, tendons, and muscles. They could also save on visits to the surgeon.
As expected, however, hard-line boomers are adopting an over-exercise-until-you-drop attitude.
As one recalcitrant member of the group said, “Hey, it’s like exercising came with the genes. I can’t change my routine anymore than I can change my feet, which wake up every morning, ready to run for miles.”
This group is so determined they plan to exercise excessively, even if it means hobbling into old age due to self-inflicted hobbling. As another member of the over-exercise or you’re over-the-hill group stated, ”Look, if I’m going to need a knee replacement or two, I might as well be one of the first in my generation to get one.”
Avant Garde Composer Creates New Piece, Called Making Popcorn
An American avant garde composer, who takes his inspiration from the most upstart composers of recent times, had a piece performed last night at Carnegie Hall, titled “Making Popcorn.”
The Boston Pops Orchestra, which commissioned the piece, left the stage to make way for the performance.
Stagehands then wheeled out a popcorn-making machine and prepared it for the performance by filling it with dry corn, butter, and salt.
When the machine was “tuned,” the composer entered to conduct his own work. Taking the podium, he raised his baton and the machine was switched on. When the first kernel popped, he gave a firm downbeat and then continued to conduct as the kernels popped away. The piece concluded when all the popcorn had contributed its sound.
In an interview prior to the concert, the composer told us, “It’s a new piece for percussion. As you know, there have been more additions to the percussion of the orchestra than to any other one. Take, for instance, the brake drum and the ratchet, which is really just a noisemaker. My hope is that the success of my new piece will make the popcorn machine a standard ingredient of the symphony orchestra.”
“Would you consider it to be a tuned or an untuned percussion instrument,” we asked, indulging the wayward simpleton.
“I’m not sure yet,” he told us. “While the individual pops do have different pitches, they’re impossible to control.”
After savoring the performance, this observer began to long for the once-scandalous composition by John Cage, called 4'33", in which, as you probably know, a pianist enters, sits down at the piano for four minutes and thirty-three seconds,, and does absolutely nothing. Then he gets up and exits.
Who would have though a concert would come when one reconsidered Cage's work an instance of generous reticence?
The Boston Pops Orchestra, which commissioned the piece, left the stage to make way for the performance.
Stagehands then wheeled out a popcorn-making machine and prepared it for the performance by filling it with dry corn, butter, and salt.
When the machine was “tuned,” the composer entered to conduct his own work. Taking the podium, he raised his baton and the machine was switched on. When the first kernel popped, he gave a firm downbeat and then continued to conduct as the kernels popped away. The piece concluded when all the popcorn had contributed its sound.
In an interview prior to the concert, the composer told us, “It’s a new piece for percussion. As you know, there have been more additions to the percussion of the orchestra than to any other one. Take, for instance, the brake drum and the ratchet, which is really just a noisemaker. My hope is that the success of my new piece will make the popcorn machine a standard ingredient of the symphony orchestra.”
“Would you consider it to be a tuned or an untuned percussion instrument,” we asked, indulging the wayward simpleton.
“I’m not sure yet,” he told us. “While the individual pops do have different pitches, they’re impossible to control.”
After savoring the performance, this observer began to long for the once-scandalous composition by John Cage, called 4'33", in which, as you probably know, a pianist enters, sits down at the piano for four minutes and thirty-three seconds,, and does absolutely nothing. Then he gets up and exits.
Who would have though a concert would come when one reconsidered Cage's work an instance of generous reticence?
Audit Report on Katrina Debit Cards; Some Recipients Swam In Champagne
A federal audit on the spending proclivities of people who were issued debit cards by FEMA during the Katrina disaster indicates that some of them were swimming in champagne – and good stuff, too.
Among the survival rations that were purchased, we find a $200 bottle of champagne, used as a life-saving device at the hurricane shelter known as Hooters. The establishment, upon hearing of the purchase, has nobly agreed to refund the amount to FEMA.
Other items that emergency cards were used to purchase are the following:
A flotation device of questionable effect, called diamond jewelry.
An escape route from the rising waters to a vacation in the Dominican Republic.
Salvation from a divorce lawyer by paying off a $1,000 legal bill.
Drying out at a strip club, where the recuperative process required $600.
Recuperation with $400 of “adult erotica products.”
The auditors concluded that such purchases were "not necessary to satisfy legitimate disaster needs."
Greg Kutz, a GAO forensic auditor, said one "fraudster" way up in West Virginia received a rental assistance check by using the address of a cemetery in New Orleans.
Another application, employing a vacant lot as an address, found favor in FEMA for a payment of $2,358 in rental assistance.
The relief organization also paid $8,000 and then $5,000 more, in a double-dip into rental assistance, to help a long-suffering recipient survive at a resort hotel in Honolulu.
The GAO also found that FEMA lost track of 750 debit cards, worth a total of $1.5 million.
As a result of the debit-card debacle, FEMA itself has been scheduled to receive federal disaster relief.
Among the survival rations that were purchased, we find a $200 bottle of champagne, used as a life-saving device at the hurricane shelter known as Hooters. The establishment, upon hearing of the purchase, has nobly agreed to refund the amount to FEMA.
Other items that emergency cards were used to purchase are the following:
A flotation device of questionable effect, called diamond jewelry.
An escape route from the rising waters to a vacation in the Dominican Republic.
Salvation from a divorce lawyer by paying off a $1,000 legal bill.
Drying out at a strip club, where the recuperative process required $600.
Recuperation with $400 of “adult erotica products.”
The auditors concluded that such purchases were "not necessary to satisfy legitimate disaster needs."
Greg Kutz, a GAO forensic auditor, said one "fraudster" way up in West Virginia received a rental assistance check by using the address of a cemetery in New Orleans.
Another application, employing a vacant lot as an address, found favor in FEMA for a payment of $2,358 in rental assistance.
The relief organization also paid $8,000 and then $5,000 more, in a double-dip into rental assistance, to help a long-suffering recipient survive at a resort hotel in Honolulu.
The GAO also found that FEMA lost track of 750 debit cards, worth a total of $1.5 million.
As a result of the debit-card debacle, FEMA itself has been scheduled to receive federal disaster relief.
April Fool’s trick
One of the best and funniest April Fool’s tricks was invented and played by me last year. I should say that my friend and me used to make fun of each other regularly on April Fool’s Day with varying success. That is my friend was on his guard and knew he should be ready for my dirty tricks, which made the task almost impossible to carry out.
Last year not long before April Fool’s Day Andrey returned from Canada, where he’d been on a business trip (both of us work as translators of English for one company but on different floors). On April 1st I called Andrey, having arranged beforehand that the telephone girl should interrupt our conversation in a couple of minutes and say that Mr. Andrey Polyarov has a call from Canada. After that she put him through with another telephone in our room, and I quickly answered it. I should say that to change my voice and create the effect of “long-distance call” I wrapped the blower with a sweater and made use of loud speaker instead of receiver. A lot of people were standing still around me, excited that Andrey might recognize my voice. But their fears were groundless – he had no smallest piece of suspicion!
I started speaking in English, my voice being loud and very formal:
--Is this Mr. Andrey Polyarov?
Andrey, a little anxious, replies:
--Yes, this is me? Who am I talking to?
--This is “Otrinto” company, where on March 11th you ordered two commercial vending machines of a total value of 3,141 Canadian dollars…
-But I haven’t ordered any vending machines…
-Excuse me, is this Mr. Polyarov?
-Yes, this is me, but I haven’t ordered any vending machines, and I’m not going to pay anything. – Andrey was starting to lose his patience. I went on insisting…
-I’m sorry but I have an order with your signature. By the way I remember you pretty well – you’re a Russian, stout, baldish, speaking with accent, right?
-Right! But I repeat that I haven’t ordered these fucken vending machines…
-Sir, I should warn you that in case on non-payment within a reasonable time we’ll have to bring a legal action!
Andrey finally lost his temper, started yelling that he never knew any “Otrinto” company, never ordered anything and that I could stick my vending machines up my ass…
The audience in our room couldn’t suppress a laugh, every word from underneath the sweater resulted in a burst of Homeric laughter. I was chuckling myself and couldn’t speak and play my role anymore. I tried to clear the air.
-Andrey, this is me, Denis, April Fool! – but it was vain. Andrey was shouting that he knew no Denis. He wasn’t even realizing that I was speaking Russian to him…
Of course I could go on further, providing Andrey with the details of his appearance, passport number, address… That’s what I had planned actually, but as I say it was absolutely impossible as my last words weren’t pronounced but were gurgling through the choking laughter.
Last year not long before April Fool’s Day Andrey returned from Canada, where he’d been on a business trip (both of us work as translators of English for one company but on different floors). On April 1st I called Andrey, having arranged beforehand that the telephone girl should interrupt our conversation in a couple of minutes and say that Mr. Andrey Polyarov has a call from Canada. After that she put him through with another telephone in our room, and I quickly answered it. I should say that to change my voice and create the effect of “long-distance call” I wrapped the blower with a sweater and made use of loud speaker instead of receiver. A lot of people were standing still around me, excited that Andrey might recognize my voice. But their fears were groundless – he had no smallest piece of suspicion!
I started speaking in English, my voice being loud and very formal:
--Is this Mr. Andrey Polyarov?
Andrey, a little anxious, replies:
--Yes, this is me? Who am I talking to?
--This is “Otrinto” company, where on March 11th you ordered two commercial vending machines of a total value of 3,141 Canadian dollars…
-But I haven’t ordered any vending machines…
-Excuse me, is this Mr. Polyarov?
-Yes, this is me, but I haven’t ordered any vending machines, and I’m not going to pay anything. – Andrey was starting to lose his patience. I went on insisting…
-I’m sorry but I have an order with your signature. By the way I remember you pretty well – you’re a Russian, stout, baldish, speaking with accent, right?
-Right! But I repeat that I haven’t ordered these fucken vending machines…
-Sir, I should warn you that in case on non-payment within a reasonable time we’ll have to bring a legal action!
Andrey finally lost his temper, started yelling that he never knew any “Otrinto” company, never ordered anything and that I could stick my vending machines up my ass…
The audience in our room couldn’t suppress a laugh, every word from underneath the sweater resulted in a burst of Homeric laughter. I was chuckling myself and couldn’t speak and play my role anymore. I tried to clear the air.
-Andrey, this is me, Denis, April Fool! – but it was vain. Andrey was shouting that he knew no Denis. He wasn’t even realizing that I was speaking Russian to him…
Of course I could go on further, providing Andrey with the details of his appearance, passport number, address… That’s what I had planned actually, but as I say it was absolutely impossible as my last words weren’t pronounced but were gurgling through the choking laughter.
Another Dracula, Another Flop
This week Warner Brothers joined the Walt Disney company in attempting to transform Broadway from a venue with a whisper of hope for social relevance into one that presents works that are the intellectual equivalent of Mickey Mouse caper.
If Disney could do it with, for example, The Lion King, why couldn’t Warner Brothers find a property to achieve Broadway fame and fortune with? Unfortunately, their imaginations never soared higher than redoing the Dracula legend, based on a contemporary author’s odd novelistic take on it.
In order to hew to Disney’s proven path to moronic megabucks, Warner hired the same songwriting team Disney did for The Lion King, Elton John and his comparatively invisible lyricist Bernie Taupin.
Fortunately, the show was a no-go from the start. The word of mouth was devastating and the reviews turned out to make the word of mouth sound brilliant.
The question is, why would anybody, given the entire world of properties to choose from or, on a wild bet, even to create an entirely original one, choose the exhausted and irrelevant legend of Dracula?
As we of say about trying to work with an idea that doesn’t seem to have a life of its own, you can stand up a dead body, but you can’t make it sing and dance, and, once you let go, it’s bound to fall down.
If Disney could do it with, for example, The Lion King, why couldn’t Warner Brothers find a property to achieve Broadway fame and fortune with? Unfortunately, their imaginations never soared higher than redoing the Dracula legend, based on a contemporary author’s odd novelistic take on it.
In order to hew to Disney’s proven path to moronic megabucks, Warner hired the same songwriting team Disney did for The Lion King, Elton John and his comparatively invisible lyricist Bernie Taupin.
Fortunately, the show was a no-go from the start. The word of mouth was devastating and the reviews turned out to make the word of mouth sound brilliant.
The question is, why would anybody, given the entire world of properties to choose from or, on a wild bet, even to create an entirely original one, choose the exhausted and irrelevant legend of Dracula?
As we of say about trying to work with an idea that doesn’t seem to have a life of its own, you can stand up a dead body, but you can’t make it sing and dance, and, once you let go, it’s bound to fall down.
Ancient Mayan Mummy Proves A Tattoo Is Forever
Evidence of the extraordinary longevity of tattoos has finally been discovered, in a mummified Mayan female whose panoramic tattoos have lasted almost two thousand years.
Tattoo artists were ecstatic at the discovery, immediately citing the mummy as proof that once you’re lucky enough to have a tattoo, you can forget about upkeep.
On the other hand, those who have decorated themselves with tattoos but in later years regretted the colorful self-mutilation, were widely distressed by the discovery. As one man with a prominent tattoo on the pierced tip of his nose told us, “I suspect when I’m finally old enough to feel really stupid about this tattoo it’ll still be here., Now, I know if I want to get rid of it, I’ll have to fork over the bucks for plastic surgery.”
Curiously enough, the mummy’s bones revealed what at first appeared to be dichotomous lifestyles. She was apparently motherly, because bone evidence revealed that she had given birth to a child, but a variety hardly motherly clubs were also found buried with her.
An archaeologist explained the seeming duality of tender sentiment and weaponry by stating, “My theory is that she went to the grave, regretting the tattoos and asked to be buried with clubs so she could ward off any evil spirits who might arrive to apply even more tattoos.”
Tattoo artists were ecstatic at the discovery, immediately citing the mummy as proof that once you’re lucky enough to have a tattoo, you can forget about upkeep.
On the other hand, those who have decorated themselves with tattoos but in later years regretted the colorful self-mutilation, were widely distressed by the discovery. As one man with a prominent tattoo on the pierced tip of his nose told us, “I suspect when I’m finally old enough to feel really stupid about this tattoo it’ll still be here., Now, I know if I want to get rid of it, I’ll have to fork over the bucks for plastic surgery.”
Curiously enough, the mummy’s bones revealed what at first appeared to be dichotomous lifestyles. She was apparently motherly, because bone evidence revealed that she had given birth to a child, but a variety hardly motherly clubs were also found buried with her.
An archaeologist explained the seeming duality of tender sentiment and weaponry by stating, “My theory is that she went to the grave, regretting the tattoos and asked to be buried with clubs so she could ward off any evil spirits who might arrive to apply even more tattoos.”
An Efficient Commute
This morning, as usual, I was pressed for time. I had to be to my "9 to 5" especially early and I woke up late. Instead of rushing around more than I already had been, I thought I would take the time to finish my "getting ready for work rituals" in the car. After all, I have seen countless others in my rearview mirror and beside me in their cars do the same, so why can't I?
As I grabbed my things, I raced out to the car and started on the 32-minute commute to work. As I was brushing my teeth, I realized, I had no place to spit out the toothpaste foam that accumulated in my mouth. So, I rolled down the window and masterfully drooled down the inside of my car. Crest and saliva dripped down the inside of my car door into the power lock and window switches. At least my car has a minty fresh scent to it. I took a swig of orange juice and remembered what vomit tasted like.
Not having a lot of time to worry about my toothbrushing experience, I figured I should do my hair next. One of the nice things about owning a Pontiac Vibe is the 110 Volt AC plug built into the car. Perfect for my wife's hair dryer. Red lights were spaced perfectly to allow me to safely dry my hair. I wasn't about to dry my hair with a towel in the car. That would be just dangerous. The hair paste and styling of my messy spiky hair went off without a hitch.
The final thing on my list to do before work is shave. Now, I won't really go into a lot of detail, but I will say that this was the hardest task of my commute. I made it to work with a little time to spare and the only evidence that I was really hurried this morning was a hairdryer on the passenger seat, dried drool on the driver's side door and shaving cream with beard stubble on the floor mats.
As I grabbed my things, I raced out to the car and started on the 32-minute commute to work. As I was brushing my teeth, I realized, I had no place to spit out the toothpaste foam that accumulated in my mouth. So, I rolled down the window and masterfully drooled down the inside of my car. Crest and saliva dripped down the inside of my car door into the power lock and window switches. At least my car has a minty fresh scent to it. I took a swig of orange juice and remembered what vomit tasted like.
Not having a lot of time to worry about my toothbrushing experience, I figured I should do my hair next. One of the nice things about owning a Pontiac Vibe is the 110 Volt AC plug built into the car. Perfect for my wife's hair dryer. Red lights were spaced perfectly to allow me to safely dry my hair. I wasn't about to dry my hair with a towel in the car. That would be just dangerous. The hair paste and styling of my messy spiky hair went off without a hitch.
The final thing on my list to do before work is shave. Now, I won't really go into a lot of detail, but I will say that this was the hardest task of my commute. I made it to work with a little time to spare and the only evidence that I was really hurried this morning was a hairdryer on the passenger seat, dried drool on the driver's side door and shaving cream with beard stubble on the floor mats.
America To Sue Rest Of World For Ungrateful Behavior
America, which has sacrificed the lives of its citizens and its material plentitude more selflessly than any other nation in history to come to the assistance of other countries, noted the astonishingly heated negative commentary about it emanating from virtually every corner of the globe and has decided to sue the rest of the world on the grounds of ungrateful behavior.
The President said, “You can’t just go out there and sacrifice your sons and daughters lives and expend so much of the national treasury and not get a little something back. We’ve got sorrowful families all across the land, with whose losses I deeply sympathize, and we can’t even afford to fix the potholes on federal highways. So what choice do we have? We’re taking the ungrateful foreigners to court. Justice will be served. We merit and demand some praise here.”
A grandmother for the plaintiff stated, “My family has lost loved ones in three different wars and all in countries that I haven’t heard a good thing said in about America for years. When I take the stand, watch out. I’m patriotic pissed.”
The international court at The Hague has declined to take the case, primarily because it is in The Hague. Upon learning of that court’s disinclination, the U. S. has appealed to the U. N. to find a venue that will hear the case.”
A prominent attorney for America commented, “We’d rather not have the trial here. Holding it in our own country will detract from the credibility of the outcome, but having it in an unfriendly location is bound to create the kind of inflammatory demonstrations that will lead to a lot of free press.”
Not surprisingly, France, Germany, and Spain have also nixed the idea of hosting the trial, maintaining that since they’re all being sued, supporting the action seems inadvisable.
Britain and Italy are understood to be considering the matter. Tony Blair is the most disposed to hosting it, saying, “We hardly ever badmouth America, so we hope to come through the trial with flying colors.”
The Italian government has expressed some willingness to host it but has indicated it may charge for rental of the courthouse. “I’m confident of victory,” another attorney for America maintained. “All you have to do is look at the newspapers. All the incriminating evidence you need is on the lips of leaders and the public in general in just about every country of the world. The only thing that stands in the way of a big win for the U. S. is finding a country where we can conduct the trial.”
Should the verdict go as the plaintiff hopes, the expectation is that the guilty will henceforth base their comments on a true understanding of just who this country is.
One of the most persuasive arguments the nation’s attorneys hope to present is based on the usual philosophical tactic of imagining the opposite argument.
As the lead attorney for the country put it, “Will you please tell us what other country in the world, besides your own, you would prefer to possess the amount of power America has? We are, in fact, the first nation in the history of the world that could conquer it but, in addition to being freedom-loving people that the whole idea offends, we’re savvy business people who know we just can’t afford the worldwide upkeep.”
The President said, “You can’t just go out there and sacrifice your sons and daughters lives and expend so much of the national treasury and not get a little something back. We’ve got sorrowful families all across the land, with whose losses I deeply sympathize, and we can’t even afford to fix the potholes on federal highways. So what choice do we have? We’re taking the ungrateful foreigners to court. Justice will be served. We merit and demand some praise here.”
A grandmother for the plaintiff stated, “My family has lost loved ones in three different wars and all in countries that I haven’t heard a good thing said in about America for years. When I take the stand, watch out. I’m patriotic pissed.”
The international court at The Hague has declined to take the case, primarily because it is in The Hague. Upon learning of that court’s disinclination, the U. S. has appealed to the U. N. to find a venue that will hear the case.”
A prominent attorney for America commented, “We’d rather not have the trial here. Holding it in our own country will detract from the credibility of the outcome, but having it in an unfriendly location is bound to create the kind of inflammatory demonstrations that will lead to a lot of free press.”
Not surprisingly, France, Germany, and Spain have also nixed the idea of hosting the trial, maintaining that since they’re all being sued, supporting the action seems inadvisable.
Britain and Italy are understood to be considering the matter. Tony Blair is the most disposed to hosting it, saying, “We hardly ever badmouth America, so we hope to come through the trial with flying colors.”
The Italian government has expressed some willingness to host it but has indicated it may charge for rental of the courthouse. “I’m confident of victory,” another attorney for America maintained. “All you have to do is look at the newspapers. All the incriminating evidence you need is on the lips of leaders and the public in general in just about every country of the world. The only thing that stands in the way of a big win for the U. S. is finding a country where we can conduct the trial.”
Should the verdict go as the plaintiff hopes, the expectation is that the guilty will henceforth base their comments on a true understanding of just who this country is.
One of the most persuasive arguments the nation’s attorneys hope to present is based on the usual philosophical tactic of imagining the opposite argument.
As the lead attorney for the country put it, “Will you please tell us what other country in the world, besides your own, you would prefer to possess the amount of power America has? We are, in fact, the first nation in the history of the world that could conquer it but, in addition to being freedom-loving people that the whole idea offends, we’re savvy business people who know we just can’t afford the worldwide upkeep.”
America: Still So Young No Americans Allowed
If sometimes, weighed down with the complexities of uneasy empire, we perchance wonder if America could be freedom’s fading star, it’s somewhat reassuring to realize that the nation is so young it still does not recognize the existence of Americans. Even the Indians don’t completely get the nod, because they’re still camped out on reservations.
We might see the persistent refusal to accept “I’m an American” as a recognized nationality, at least on the home front, as a consonant reflection of our mixed and matched heritage. But it does present us with inconveniences.
Tell a fellow American who asks your nationality, “I’m an American,” and what does he say? “Oh, come on, tell me, really, what are you?”
“I just told you,” you repeat, in your resourceful attempt to nationalize yourself, “I was born and rear-beaten in America.”
“No, no,” your interrogator presses on, “I mean, where did your parents come from?”
“Well,” you let out, “my mother was born in West Virginia.”
“Then where did your father come from?”
Now, you’ve been cornered, so you finally confess that he came from here, there, or wherever. Let’s say Ireland. And what does your pouncing interrogator reply?
“Oh, so you’re Irish.”
Actually, the only time you get to be an American is when you’re likely to suffer the slings of outrageous interactions in distant lands.
“Oh, so you’re an American,” you're told, usually in a tone that intimates at least a slight reprimand, as soon as the securely French, Italian, or whatever person you chance to chat with determines you’re from the USA.
And, no matter how much effort your make to elude detection by speaking in the tongue of your assailant, the nonchalant accusation pops to the fore as soon as your first Yankee twang intrudes.
Will Durant, the popular (dare we say American?) historian, estimated that it takes about eight-hundred years for a country to develop a civilization. I wonder how long it takes short of that to develop the nationality that might achieve it.
We might see the persistent refusal to accept “I’m an American” as a recognized nationality, at least on the home front, as a consonant reflection of our mixed and matched heritage. But it does present us with inconveniences.
Tell a fellow American who asks your nationality, “I’m an American,” and what does he say? “Oh, come on, tell me, really, what are you?”
“I just told you,” you repeat, in your resourceful attempt to nationalize yourself, “I was born and rear-beaten in America.”
“No, no,” your interrogator presses on, “I mean, where did your parents come from?”
“Well,” you let out, “my mother was born in West Virginia.”
“Then where did your father come from?”
Now, you’ve been cornered, so you finally confess that he came from here, there, or wherever. Let’s say Ireland. And what does your pouncing interrogator reply?
“Oh, so you’re Irish.”
Actually, the only time you get to be an American is when you’re likely to suffer the slings of outrageous interactions in distant lands.
“Oh, so you’re an American,” you're told, usually in a tone that intimates at least a slight reprimand, as soon as the securely French, Italian, or whatever person you chance to chat with determines you’re from the USA.
And, no matter how much effort your make to elude detection by speaking in the tongue of your assailant, the nonchalant accusation pops to the fore as soon as your first Yankee twang intrudes.
Will Durant, the popular (dare we say American?) historian, estimated that it takes about eight-hundred years for a country to develop a civilization. I wonder how long it takes short of that to develop the nationality that might achieve it.
Amazing Trivia Part 1
I admit it .. I LIKE trivia, tho it serves no purpose for me since I can never remember any to bring up in conversation. But still, it is fun, so I've created this list of amazing trivia that I found to be absolutely riveting.
1. Snails can sleep up to 3 years.
Not so amazing actually since I managed to sleep thru 6 years of jr. high and high school. And when you think about it, what do snails have to do all their lives? Sure, they leave great slime trails and make excellent targets for salt shakers and little boys, but other than that there’s not much more to do but sleep after an exhausting run across a sidewalk.
2. American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in first-class.
Until I read this, I was convinced that there was an olive missing from my salad, yet no one would believe me. Now I am vindicated! I am now searching for proof that the airlines have taken one peanut from each bag .. I'll keep you posted.
3. An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.
After reading this, I realized that I know of many people with the same problem! But that’s an article about politicians I'm working on. For me, it's usually that my eyes are bigger than my stomach...
4. Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour.
Well, I'd like to see anyone keep this up long enough to actually lose 150 calories. Now that I think about it, I DON'T want to see...
5. Donald Duck comics were banned in Finland because he doesn't wear pants.
This is completely understandable.. I mean, who wants to look at a duck with no pants on? Besides, I understand that it is the law for all birds to wear pants in the city limits of Finland.
6. If you pass gas consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb.
I tried to prove or disprove this, but two things stopped me ... I couldn't stand to look at a bowl of chili after the third day, and my girlfriend threatened to leave me ... although it was kinda hard to tell what she was really saying with that gasmask on.
7. In ancient Egypt, priests plucked EVERY hair from their bodies, including their eyebrows and eyelashes.
Now, this piece of trivia leaves ALOT to the imagination, which is probably a good thing. BUT, I would like to point out, you'd have to be pretty limber to get some on those hairs .. nuff said.
8. The ant always falls over on its right side when intoxicated.
I know this trivia fact isn't true 'cause I've gone drinking with my ants several times and I've watched them fall over in several different directions... usually they tend to fall on my uncles tho.
9. The average human eats eight spiders in their lifetime at night.
I don't know about this fact ... I've seen several spiders at night and never once felt compelled to eat one. Though I hear that spider is tasty if barbequed correctly.
10. And now for our final fun trivia fact:
Some lions mate over 50 times a day... No wonder the females do all the work.
1. Snails can sleep up to 3 years.
Not so amazing actually since I managed to sleep thru 6 years of jr. high and high school. And when you think about it, what do snails have to do all their lives? Sure, they leave great slime trails and make excellent targets for salt shakers and little boys, but other than that there’s not much more to do but sleep after an exhausting run across a sidewalk.
2. American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in first-class.
Until I read this, I was convinced that there was an olive missing from my salad, yet no one would believe me. Now I am vindicated! I am now searching for proof that the airlines have taken one peanut from each bag .. I'll keep you posted.
3. An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.
After reading this, I realized that I know of many people with the same problem! But that’s an article about politicians I'm working on. For me, it's usually that my eyes are bigger than my stomach...
4. Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour.
Well, I'd like to see anyone keep this up long enough to actually lose 150 calories. Now that I think about it, I DON'T want to see...
5. Donald Duck comics were banned in Finland because he doesn't wear pants.
This is completely understandable.. I mean, who wants to look at a duck with no pants on? Besides, I understand that it is the law for all birds to wear pants in the city limits of Finland.
6. If you pass gas consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb.
I tried to prove or disprove this, but two things stopped me ... I couldn't stand to look at a bowl of chili after the third day, and my girlfriend threatened to leave me ... although it was kinda hard to tell what she was really saying with that gasmask on.
7. In ancient Egypt, priests plucked EVERY hair from their bodies, including their eyebrows and eyelashes.
Now, this piece of trivia leaves ALOT to the imagination, which is probably a good thing. BUT, I would like to point out, you'd have to be pretty limber to get some on those hairs .. nuff said.
8. The ant always falls over on its right side when intoxicated.
I know this trivia fact isn't true 'cause I've gone drinking with my ants several times and I've watched them fall over in several different directions... usually they tend to fall on my uncles tho.
9. The average human eats eight spiders in their lifetime at night.
I don't know about this fact ... I've seen several spiders at night and never once felt compelled to eat one. Though I hear that spider is tasty if barbequed correctly.
10. And now for our final fun trivia fact:
Some lions mate over 50 times a day... No wonder the females do all the work.
jueves, 11 de noviembre de 2010
A Revised History Of Pasta
While Marco Polo, a Venetian, is generally given credit for discovering noodles in China, recent research suggests that Italian pasta in all its glorious varieties was actually discovered in Rome nearly a century earlier, and quite by accident, by a remarkably unlikely epicurean named Julius Amplonius, with the able assistance of an invading barbarian named Klunk, The Great.
The momentous event occurred one afternoon when this portly patrician was dining at a chic restaurant just off the Roman Forum. He was savoring a sip of red wine from Tuscany when a group of alarmed citizens came running by, screeching, “The barbarians are coming! The barbarians are coming!”
Amplonius had witnessed their arrival before, and by now he had made peace with the ancient wisdom, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may be out of food and wine.” It was by such Stoicism that the wise were able to witness the destruction of the Roman Empire while preserving a somewhat peaceful life. So, with a knowing smile, Julius simply raised his glass toward the fleeing crowd.
“What are you going to do, Julie, just sit there and eat?” a citizen who knew him quite well asked.
“Why not?” he replied. “I’m thirsty. Not to mention hungry.” With that, he indulged in another taste of the Tuscan red.
“You’re crazy!” a speeding friend called. “Run, Julie! Run!”
Just then a waitress who doubled as a temptress arrived with Julie’s lunch, which might be described as a plate of proto-pasta. It consisted of a flat, round piece of dough that hung just a bit over the margins of the plate. It had a baked tomato sitting in the middle of it, with a single chunk of parmesan cheese next to it, and around both was a wreath of fragrant basil leaves.
“Enjoy your plano,” she said, putting down the dish, for that is the name the proto-pasta was known by.
“Thank you, gorgeous,” Julius told her, and gave her a pinch.
“Oh, you silly man,” she replied, and, looking about, seemed nervous. “Can you do me a favor, love, and close out your bill now?”
“No problem, you sex kitten,” he said, and reached for his purse. He took out enough Roman coinage to include a generous tip. “Keep the change,” he told her, and pursed his lips expectantly.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a luscious but ever-so-brief kiss. Then she hurried off after the other fleeing citizens.
Julius calmly picked up a knife and fork and began to eat his proto-pasta.
Just as he cut off and savored his first bite, in rushed a huge, fur-covered barbarian, with a leather shield and the fateful sword with which he would help Julius discover pasta in many of the varieties we enjoy to this day, from lasagna to angel hair.
“Uh!” he grunted, and raised his sword.
Julius continued to dine. “Uh! Uh!” the barbarian raged, for the sound “uh” comprised much of the everyday range of his proto-language. To attract the attention of the unperturbed diner, he swung his sword in a circle and just happened to whack off the head of a statue of the great Augustus. It crashed to the marble floor.
Julius couldn’t help but notice the decapitation and, placing a leaf of basil on his tongue, said, “That wasn’t very nice. I kind of liked that statue.”
The barbarian could not, of course, understand a word. In an effort to establish a bit of good will, at least long enough to allow him to finish his meal, Julius held up his bottle of wine. “Like some vino?”
“Huh-Uh!” the barbarian managed to say.
“Suit yourself,” Julie told him. “Got a name?”
The barbarian stared at him without comprehension.
“Name?” Julius repeated, pointing to himself and then at the barbarian to illustrate the point of his question.
“Klunk,” the barbarian said.
“I might have guessed,” Julius commented.
“Klunk, The Great,” the barbarian continued, with some intellectual effort.
“Good for you,” Julius told him, and put out his hand. “I’m Julius, The Roman, also known as Julie, The Ample. Have a seat.”
“Huh-uh! I am conqueror – conqueror of Rome!” Klunk managed to say.
“Good for you!” Julie told him, and couldn’t resist asking the most challenging question. “Are you sure you can afford the upkeep? It’s an expensive city to maintain.”
“What is upkeep?” Klunk wanted to know.
“You’ll find out,” Julius advised him. “Now, come on. Have a seat. You’ve had a hard day.” Then he pointed to his dish and indicated a reluctant willingness to share some of his food. “And enjoy some plano.”
Klunk looked down at the plate, and asked, “What is plano?”
“You don't know?” Julie inquired. “Where have you been?”
“Other side of the Alps,” Klunk managed to get out.
“Oh, no wonder,” Julie replied, and decided to educate the deprived soul. “See. This is a plate. Ever hear of a plate?”
“Plate?”
“Instead of eating off the table, or the ground, you eat off of a plate.”
“Uh,” Klunk said, with apparent understanding.
“Now, on the plate we put a flat piece of boiled dough, called plano,” Julius continued, lifting up the edge with his fork to demonstrate. “Then we put all kinds of goodies on top of it. In this case, a tomato, a piece of cheese, and basil leaves.”
“Uh-huh.” Klunk acknowledged.
“All you do is take a knife and fork,” Julius explained, picking the utensils up slowly, so Klunk wouldn’t mistake his intentions and send his head rolling the way of the great Augustus’s marble head. “Then you cut off a piece.” He went through the process and took a bite. “Ah, delicious! Sure you won’t have any?”
“Uh-huh,” Klunk said, holding his ground, and repeated with some effort, “Plano.”
“Excellent!” Julius exclaimed. “You'll be a true Roman in no time!”
“Klunk – a Roman?” the barbarian responded, visibly insulted, and raised his sword high above Julius. Then, unexpectedly, he brought the sword down on the plate and cut the plano right in half. “Now, what do you call it?” he was somehow able to ask.
Julius looked down at the two half-moons, and said, “I think I’ll call that one big agnolotti.” Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at Klunk.
Incensed at his inability to frighten Julius, he raised his sword again and whacked the plate three or four times. “What do you call it now?”
Julius examined it, and said, “This I’ll call lasagne.” With that, he took a bite and savored it.
Now furious, Klunk attacked the plate repeatedly, and demanded, “What do you call it now?”
Julius, despite his indifference to fate, was a bit shaken by all the clatter, and said, “I will name it linguine.”
Needless to say, Klunk swung his sword at the plate with an unprecedented volley of strokes. “What is it now?”
Julius examined the mishmash on his plate. By now, the plano was cut into thin strips, the tomato was diced, and the cheese was grated. After some deliberation, Julius announced, “You made what I will call spaghetti.” Still remaining remarkably calm, at least on the exterior, Julius took his fork and wound some spaghetti around it. Then he took a bite. “Delicious! And fun, too,” he told Klunk.
Enraged at his seemingly imperturbable true Roman, the barbarian now slashed at the contents of the plate until his arms were a veritable blur. Then, short of breath, he sighed, “Tell me what you name that.”
Julius looked closely at the mayhem in his plate. Now, the pasta was as thin as he could imagine it, and the tomato sauce, cheese, and basil were all mixed together. “It is so thin I think I will name it angel hair.”
Klunk became unexpectedly curious and bent toward Julius. “Angel hair? What for? You no angel. You fat Roman.”
Considering how finely the plano was now sliced, Julius could not imagine how much longer it could invite the attentions of Klunk and imagined that his own neck might well be the next object of the barbarian’s fury. Ever the clever Roman, he noticed that, as a result of Klunk’s exertion, his tummy was showing a bit.
Julie was, of course, also aware of the legendary weakness of the barbarian shield, as opposed to the metal shield that accounted for much of the impenetrability of the storied Roman phalanx.
So he pretended to move his knife toward the last remaining decent-size piece of tomato, saying, “No, my friend, I am not an angel.” With that, he quickly stabbed the somewhat exhausted Klunk, and added, “But you’re about to become one.”
Klunk looked down at his sudden, fatal wound with shock and fell to the ground with a thud. His head knocked the table and, if Julius’s hands weren’t so quick, the movement would have upset his glass of wine.
Leaning back and enjoying a sip, he said, “I think I’m gonna call all these things I discovered after my beautiful girlfriend, Pastina.” Then he rolled a bit on his fork and indulged in another mouthful, musing, “I just love Pastina.”
All the names Julius invented that day, with the undoubted help of the ill-fated barbarian Klunk, have come down through the centuries without alteration, except for the categorical appellation, which usage would eventually abbreviate to the more familiar word “pasta.”
The momentous event occurred one afternoon when this portly patrician was dining at a chic restaurant just off the Roman Forum. He was savoring a sip of red wine from Tuscany when a group of alarmed citizens came running by, screeching, “The barbarians are coming! The barbarians are coming!”
Amplonius had witnessed their arrival before, and by now he had made peace with the ancient wisdom, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may be out of food and wine.” It was by such Stoicism that the wise were able to witness the destruction of the Roman Empire while preserving a somewhat peaceful life. So, with a knowing smile, Julius simply raised his glass toward the fleeing crowd.
“What are you going to do, Julie, just sit there and eat?” a citizen who knew him quite well asked.
“Why not?” he replied. “I’m thirsty. Not to mention hungry.” With that, he indulged in another taste of the Tuscan red.
“You’re crazy!” a speeding friend called. “Run, Julie! Run!”
Just then a waitress who doubled as a temptress arrived with Julie’s lunch, which might be described as a plate of proto-pasta. It consisted of a flat, round piece of dough that hung just a bit over the margins of the plate. It had a baked tomato sitting in the middle of it, with a single chunk of parmesan cheese next to it, and around both was a wreath of fragrant basil leaves.
“Enjoy your plano,” she said, putting down the dish, for that is the name the proto-pasta was known by.
“Thank you, gorgeous,” Julius told her, and gave her a pinch.
“Oh, you silly man,” she replied, and, looking about, seemed nervous. “Can you do me a favor, love, and close out your bill now?”
“No problem, you sex kitten,” he said, and reached for his purse. He took out enough Roman coinage to include a generous tip. “Keep the change,” he told her, and pursed his lips expectantly.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a luscious but ever-so-brief kiss. Then she hurried off after the other fleeing citizens.
Julius calmly picked up a knife and fork and began to eat his proto-pasta.
Just as he cut off and savored his first bite, in rushed a huge, fur-covered barbarian, with a leather shield and the fateful sword with which he would help Julius discover pasta in many of the varieties we enjoy to this day, from lasagna to angel hair.
“Uh!” he grunted, and raised his sword.
Julius continued to dine. “Uh! Uh!” the barbarian raged, for the sound “uh” comprised much of the everyday range of his proto-language. To attract the attention of the unperturbed diner, he swung his sword in a circle and just happened to whack off the head of a statue of the great Augustus. It crashed to the marble floor.
Julius couldn’t help but notice the decapitation and, placing a leaf of basil on his tongue, said, “That wasn’t very nice. I kind of liked that statue.”
The barbarian could not, of course, understand a word. In an effort to establish a bit of good will, at least long enough to allow him to finish his meal, Julius held up his bottle of wine. “Like some vino?”
“Huh-Uh!” the barbarian managed to say.
“Suit yourself,” Julie told him. “Got a name?”
The barbarian stared at him without comprehension.
“Name?” Julius repeated, pointing to himself and then at the barbarian to illustrate the point of his question.
“Klunk,” the barbarian said.
“I might have guessed,” Julius commented.
“Klunk, The Great,” the barbarian continued, with some intellectual effort.
“Good for you,” Julius told him, and put out his hand. “I’m Julius, The Roman, also known as Julie, The Ample. Have a seat.”
“Huh-uh! I am conqueror – conqueror of Rome!” Klunk managed to say.
“Good for you!” Julie told him, and couldn’t resist asking the most challenging question. “Are you sure you can afford the upkeep? It’s an expensive city to maintain.”
“What is upkeep?” Klunk wanted to know.
“You’ll find out,” Julius advised him. “Now, come on. Have a seat. You’ve had a hard day.” Then he pointed to his dish and indicated a reluctant willingness to share some of his food. “And enjoy some plano.”
Klunk looked down at the plate, and asked, “What is plano?”
“You don't know?” Julie inquired. “Where have you been?”
“Other side of the Alps,” Klunk managed to get out.
“Oh, no wonder,” Julie replied, and decided to educate the deprived soul. “See. This is a plate. Ever hear of a plate?”
“Plate?”
“Instead of eating off the table, or the ground, you eat off of a plate.”
“Uh,” Klunk said, with apparent understanding.
“Now, on the plate we put a flat piece of boiled dough, called plano,” Julius continued, lifting up the edge with his fork to demonstrate. “Then we put all kinds of goodies on top of it. In this case, a tomato, a piece of cheese, and basil leaves.”
“Uh-huh.” Klunk acknowledged.
“All you do is take a knife and fork,” Julius explained, picking the utensils up slowly, so Klunk wouldn’t mistake his intentions and send his head rolling the way of the great Augustus’s marble head. “Then you cut off a piece.” He went through the process and took a bite. “Ah, delicious! Sure you won’t have any?”
“Uh-huh,” Klunk said, holding his ground, and repeated with some effort, “Plano.”
“Excellent!” Julius exclaimed. “You'll be a true Roman in no time!”
“Klunk – a Roman?” the barbarian responded, visibly insulted, and raised his sword high above Julius. Then, unexpectedly, he brought the sword down on the plate and cut the plano right in half. “Now, what do you call it?” he was somehow able to ask.
Julius looked down at the two half-moons, and said, “I think I’ll call that one big agnolotti.” Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at Klunk.
Incensed at his inability to frighten Julius, he raised his sword again and whacked the plate three or four times. “What do you call it now?”
Julius examined it, and said, “This I’ll call lasagne.” With that, he took a bite and savored it.
Now furious, Klunk attacked the plate repeatedly, and demanded, “What do you call it now?”
Julius, despite his indifference to fate, was a bit shaken by all the clatter, and said, “I will name it linguine.”
Needless to say, Klunk swung his sword at the plate with an unprecedented volley of strokes. “What is it now?”
Julius examined the mishmash on his plate. By now, the plano was cut into thin strips, the tomato was diced, and the cheese was grated. After some deliberation, Julius announced, “You made what I will call spaghetti.” Still remaining remarkably calm, at least on the exterior, Julius took his fork and wound some spaghetti around it. Then he took a bite. “Delicious! And fun, too,” he told Klunk.
Enraged at his seemingly imperturbable true Roman, the barbarian now slashed at the contents of the plate until his arms were a veritable blur. Then, short of breath, he sighed, “Tell me what you name that.”
Julius looked closely at the mayhem in his plate. Now, the pasta was as thin as he could imagine it, and the tomato sauce, cheese, and basil were all mixed together. “It is so thin I think I will name it angel hair.”
Klunk became unexpectedly curious and bent toward Julius. “Angel hair? What for? You no angel. You fat Roman.”
Considering how finely the plano was now sliced, Julius could not imagine how much longer it could invite the attentions of Klunk and imagined that his own neck might well be the next object of the barbarian’s fury. Ever the clever Roman, he noticed that, as a result of Klunk’s exertion, his tummy was showing a bit.
Julie was, of course, also aware of the legendary weakness of the barbarian shield, as opposed to the metal shield that accounted for much of the impenetrability of the storied Roman phalanx.
So he pretended to move his knife toward the last remaining decent-size piece of tomato, saying, “No, my friend, I am not an angel.” With that, he quickly stabbed the somewhat exhausted Klunk, and added, “But you’re about to become one.”
Klunk looked down at his sudden, fatal wound with shock and fell to the ground with a thud. His head knocked the table and, if Julius’s hands weren’t so quick, the movement would have upset his glass of wine.
Leaning back and enjoying a sip, he said, “I think I’m gonna call all these things I discovered after my beautiful girlfriend, Pastina.” Then he rolled a bit on his fork and indulged in another mouthful, musing, “I just love Pastina.”
All the names Julius invented that day, with the undoubted help of the ill-fated barbarian Klunk, have come down through the centuries without alteration, except for the categorical appellation, which usage would eventually abbreviate to the more familiar word “pasta.”
A Page From Betty Crocker’s Cookbook
Recently, while sitting in my chair drinking the last of my breakfast coffee, a thought staggered into my mind. I must confess most thoughts are quite lonely once they enter my mind, but this one had a nagging element to it.
Experience has taught me I should never give in to these strange trespassers. Every time I entertain any of them, I’m the one getting burnt.
This time was different. Don’t ask me how it was different, or how I knew it was different, it just was. Of course, looking back I could have been wrong.
The thought: why not surprise my wife by baking her a cake?
I know what you’re thinking. I thought the same thing when this suggested itself to me. But, the more I thought about it, the more delightfully delicious it sounded. How can anything go wrong if I am doing it for my wife?
The only question I needed to answer was what kind of cake should I bake.
After a long period of ruminating, I settled on a lemon sponge cake with peanut butter icing. This was going to be the best surprise my wife has ever received from me.
Sitting in a prominent place in the kitchen is my wife’s Betty Crocker Cookbook. I don’t know how long she has had that book, it’s been in our kitchen for as long as I can remember — which really may not be that long when I come to think of it.
I took the book, sat in my favorite chair and opened it. How do you read a cookbook? As I leafed through it, it did not have any rhyme or reason to me. In musing on the book I said to myself, how important is it to follow directions?
Placing the book back in its revered spot, I concluded that since this was my cake, I didn’t need help from anybody else, particularly Betty Crocker. This is the difference between men and women. Women need a lot of directions, while men enjoy the liberty of doing their own thing.
I knew exactly what I wanted. A lemon sponge cake, with peanut butter icing. What could be simpler?
Retrieving a large mixing bowl, I assembled all the ingredients I needed; flour, sugar, eggs, milk and baking powder. Everyone knows you cannot bake without baking powder.
I have no idea what baking powder is, except when you bake you use baking powder.
I put everything in the mixing bowl. The only thing I wasn’t quite sure of was the measure, but how hard could that be anyway? Betty Crocker mentioned a cup of this and a cup of that, but never defined what she meant by a cup.
I went to the cupboard and looked at all the cups. There were all kinds and sizes of cups and I did not know which one to use. I eyed a large coffee cup and said to myself, this will do just fine.
I dumped 6 or 8 cups of flour into the mixing bowl, I can’t remember how many. Then I cracked a dozen eggs and put that into the mixing bowl as well. Pouring a quart of milk into the mixing bowl, I whipped everything into a nice batter.
This was to be a lemon sponge cake but I could find nothing marked lemon in the cupboard. I opened the refrigerator, and as luck would have it, I found a quart of lemonade.
I poured this concoction into the largest cake pan I could find. As I was about to put it into the oven, I remembered the baking powder. How is this cake going to bake if it doesn’t have the baking powder?
Setting the cake pan down, I grabbed the baking powder and liberally sprinkled it on top of my batter. I have no idea what baking powder does but I put enough on my cake so it would do a good job.
Into the oven the cake went, and with a flick of the wrist I turned the temperature to 450 degrees. Remembering this was a big cake, I readjusted the temperature to 650.
The bigger the cake the hotter the oven, is what I always say.
Now all I needed to do was wait for my cake to bake. As I was waiting, I heard rumblings coming from the oven but just chalked that up to a good cake baking.
I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew there was a strange odor permeating the air. It smelled a little smoky and then it dawned on me. My cake, it’s done.
What I pulled out of the oven did not resemble any cake I had ever seen. It looked like a burnt pancake, twice the size of the cake pan, with some kind of disease on the surface.
No amount of peanut butter icing in the world could camouflage this disaster.
It was about this time I began reassessing the idea of reading directions. Maybe instructions have a purpose after all.
I remember something the Apostle Paul said. “Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.” (2 Timothy 2:15 KJV.)
To live right without getting burnt you need the right directions.
Experience has taught me I should never give in to these strange trespassers. Every time I entertain any of them, I’m the one getting burnt.
This time was different. Don’t ask me how it was different, or how I knew it was different, it just was. Of course, looking back I could have been wrong.
The thought: why not surprise my wife by baking her a cake?
I know what you’re thinking. I thought the same thing when this suggested itself to me. But, the more I thought about it, the more delightfully delicious it sounded. How can anything go wrong if I am doing it for my wife?
The only question I needed to answer was what kind of cake should I bake.
After a long period of ruminating, I settled on a lemon sponge cake with peanut butter icing. This was going to be the best surprise my wife has ever received from me.
Sitting in a prominent place in the kitchen is my wife’s Betty Crocker Cookbook. I don’t know how long she has had that book, it’s been in our kitchen for as long as I can remember — which really may not be that long when I come to think of it.
I took the book, sat in my favorite chair and opened it. How do you read a cookbook? As I leafed through it, it did not have any rhyme or reason to me. In musing on the book I said to myself, how important is it to follow directions?
Placing the book back in its revered spot, I concluded that since this was my cake, I didn’t need help from anybody else, particularly Betty Crocker. This is the difference between men and women. Women need a lot of directions, while men enjoy the liberty of doing their own thing.
I knew exactly what I wanted. A lemon sponge cake, with peanut butter icing. What could be simpler?
Retrieving a large mixing bowl, I assembled all the ingredients I needed; flour, sugar, eggs, milk and baking powder. Everyone knows you cannot bake without baking powder.
I have no idea what baking powder is, except when you bake you use baking powder.
I put everything in the mixing bowl. The only thing I wasn’t quite sure of was the measure, but how hard could that be anyway? Betty Crocker mentioned a cup of this and a cup of that, but never defined what she meant by a cup.
I went to the cupboard and looked at all the cups. There were all kinds and sizes of cups and I did not know which one to use. I eyed a large coffee cup and said to myself, this will do just fine.
I dumped 6 or 8 cups of flour into the mixing bowl, I can’t remember how many. Then I cracked a dozen eggs and put that into the mixing bowl as well. Pouring a quart of milk into the mixing bowl, I whipped everything into a nice batter.
This was to be a lemon sponge cake but I could find nothing marked lemon in the cupboard. I opened the refrigerator, and as luck would have it, I found a quart of lemonade.
I poured this concoction into the largest cake pan I could find. As I was about to put it into the oven, I remembered the baking powder. How is this cake going to bake if it doesn’t have the baking powder?
Setting the cake pan down, I grabbed the baking powder and liberally sprinkled it on top of my batter. I have no idea what baking powder does but I put enough on my cake so it would do a good job.
Into the oven the cake went, and with a flick of the wrist I turned the temperature to 450 degrees. Remembering this was a big cake, I readjusted the temperature to 650.
The bigger the cake the hotter the oven, is what I always say.
Now all I needed to do was wait for my cake to bake. As I was waiting, I heard rumblings coming from the oven but just chalked that up to a good cake baking.
I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew there was a strange odor permeating the air. It smelled a little smoky and then it dawned on me. My cake, it’s done.
What I pulled out of the oven did not resemble any cake I had ever seen. It looked like a burnt pancake, twice the size of the cake pan, with some kind of disease on the surface.
No amount of peanut butter icing in the world could camouflage this disaster.
It was about this time I began reassessing the idea of reading directions. Maybe instructions have a purpose after all.
I remember something the Apostle Paul said. “Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.” (2 Timothy 2:15 KJV.)
To live right without getting burnt you need the right directions.
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