Confused fish
Here it is Thursday and if you are able to read this, you are well on your way to recovery from your Mardi Gras hangover. In a week or two, you should be able to sit up and take some soup.
I love Mardi Gras and I agree with, “Laissez les bons temps rouler” as the locals say. Admittedly, the city of New Orleans is crammed with tourists, but who cares? I firmly believe that everyone should go to Mardi Gras at least once in his or her lives. But, I do have a few travel tips.
Use public transportation to get there. The Big Easy is not parking friendly and if you are lucky enough to find a parking spot what or whom you will find draped over the hood of your car will reduce its resale value considerably.
Under no circumstance bring the kids along. By ‘kids’ I mean anybody under the age of 25. If you do make this mistake the money you will have to spend for the child’s therapy is going to set you back considerably. Trying to explain why your 8-year-old daughter has a ‘Bons Temps’ tattoo is not possible even to the most understanding grandparents and is an open invitation to future disasters.
If you want a family-friendly Mardi Gras go to Mobile, Ala. They are the originators of the celebration and pride themselves on keeping the lid on things. I suppose there is a place for respectability.
On a smaller scale is the Saint Patrick’s Day celebration in Savannah. I am very familiar with this one. There is a parade in the morning and a mass stagger for the rest of the day down on River Street.
The police have their patrol boats out fishing the drunks that fall in the river and as gently as possible heave them back on the River Walk. They dye the river green that confuses the daylights out of the fish. The green water combined with all the booze that is accidently poured into the river definitely gets the ‘Irish up’ on the tree-hugger types. But, tough buns PETA, Savannah is an Irish town.
Just down river from Savannah is Tybee Island. They too have a festival of considerable enthusiasm. ‘Tacky Tybee’ as the locals know it, has a celebration on the weekend after the Labor Day Weekend.
Surprisingly it has something in common with the Ground Hog Day celebration in Pennsylvania. Where Punxsutawney Phil is dragged out of his den and if he sees his shadow there will six more weeks of winter. In Tybee they drag the mayor out favorite saloon and if he sees a tourist there will be six more weeks of summer.
Consequently, no one wearing knee high socks and sandals, cargo shorts, loud Hawaiian shirts, the white goop people put on their nose, a broad brimmed hat, and a fanny pack is allowed on the island.
A word of caution, only do one a year. A liver can only take so much. © 2012, Jim McGowan
PhD doesn’t always mean Doctor
My taste in TV runs towards the educational and science programs. No not “Sesame Street” nor “Dora the Explorer”, but stuff on the History Channel or Science Channel and the likes.
However, if you believe what you see we have had the schnitzel. The PhDs that interviewed in these programs have a few things in common.
First, the PhD that follows their names must stand for ‘Piled high and Deep’. Second, about 90% of these eggheads haven’t seen the inside of a barber shop in years and they all, men and women, need to stand a little closer to the razor. (A personal note to the Docs, Indiana Jones called and he wants his hat back.)
But, the oddest thing is they all describe the various ways we are going to be destroyed with smiles on their faces.
One of the most popular ways we are going to get it is in a meteor shower. So, you better be wearing a helmet indoors and out. Forget about driving anywhere because your car is going to be pounded down to four inches high and your yard is going to be turned into a crater-strewn rock garden.
If meteors are the ones with you name on it the next favorite is the one that is addressed, “To whom it may concern”, the comet. When a comet hits everybody gets it and if a portion of the earth survives only the cockroaches will be left. Sort of like NYC without the traffic.
Another space disaster is our Sun explodes into a supernova or a Chevy Nova or does the Bossa Nova. Anyway we are all going to be fried, even the cockroaches. But don’t run out and get the tanning lotion with 10,000 SPF. It isn’t due to happen for another three billion years.
Closer to home is when Yellowstone Park and all of Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming explode into the biggest volcano ever and cover your rock garden with 12 feet of ash. If the blast doesn’t get you that diet you have been meaning to go on has started. The science nerds say we are overdue on that one.
Let us not forget the ever lovely and popular global warming. The pocket protector set is divided on this one. Some say that Miami will be the new snowboarding destination and others that Milwaukee will be in the banana belt. Denver becoming beachfront property is also frequently mentioned.
Other possible extinctions are mega-earthquakes, nuclear war, and running out of fresh water to name a few.
The Mayans predict that the world will end on December 21 this year. What a bunch of wet blankets, but that explains why you never see them at parties. However, I wouldn’t max out my credit cards just yet.
These are all scary best guesses, but there is one disaster that is guaranteed. If President Obama is reelected on November 6 you can bet that our world is going to change and not, I believe, for the better © 2012, Jim McGowan
They are all dripping wet
“Newt Gingrich puts mayonnaise on his grits”, is a claim allegedly made by ‘Mittens’ Romney. The Salamander Man responded in kind by supposedly stating that, “Romney doesn’t change his socks for weeks on end”.
Mayonnaise, really? The mere thought of such a travesty induces a gag reflex. Newt is from Georgia where putting such goop on grits is a Class II Felony punishable by three years imprisonment being fed nothing but Cream of Wheat.
Moreover, who can’t admit that they haven’t, for the odd week or two, gone forgetfully not changing their socks? (An old sock-changing joke: The Sergeant comes up to his squad who has been in the field for a month and tells the men. “We are going to change socks today” A faint, sarcastic “Yea” comes from the troops. He goes on, “Johnson you change with Billings, O’Neal you change with Jennings…”)
“Mitt Romney picks his nose up to his third knuckle.” This statement was attributed to the Gingrich people by a highly placed unnamed source. Let us consider the anatomy of this remark. Either Romney has very short fingers or his snot locker is comparable to theMammothCaves.
“Newt Gingrich cheats at golf.” Well, who doesn’t? Golf scores, fish stories and such literature as, “The Wizard of Oz” all go under the heading of pure fantasy. Even Pope Benedict somehow manages to loose the ability to add when he walks off the green.
The above diatribe is based how badly the Republican Nomination campaign has degenerated.
A bad part of my job requires me to watch what is laughingly referred to as ‘debates’. If these things are debates than TV quiz shows are college lectures.
I can tell you that Newt Gingrich played fast and loose with the portion of the wedding vow that goes, “…in sickness and in health”. I can also tell you that Romney’s investment company bought up various businesses gutted them and laid-off hundreds of workers.
However, I have a difficult time of relating any of the front-runners’ position on such topics as; social security, Medicare, international trade, the war in Afghanistan or illegal immigration.
On the Democrat Party side they are just eating this up. The mud slinging plays perfectly into their hands.
Here are their opponents doing all the dirt digging and the liberals have to merely sit by and take notes. When the general campaign rolls around they will have all the ammunition they need.
The character assassination, the likes of which would make John Wilkes Booth spin in his grave, is complete. All they have to do is put a positive spin on everything they have done; promise to give away the rest of the house, fire everyone in the Immigration and Nationalization Service and sit back and count the votes that they have bought and paid for with the tax payers money.
I would like to quote a word of warning that was told to me by the nuns, “In a p…..g contest, everybody gets wet”. © 2012, Jim McGowan
It’s a hell of a State of the County
We here inHarmonyCountyhave a ‘State of the County’ address each year. In some ways, it is similar to the President’s State of the Union address, but it varies to some extent.
Where the Prez is announced and comes down the aisle taking his sweet time to shake the men’s hands and kissing the women, or if the President is garnering the gay/lesbian vote kissing the men and shaking the women’s hands. Our county chief executive has a more dramatic, yet quicker entrance.
This year he came down the aisle in a rush. He was wearing a football helmet and was surrounded by a SWAT team with their shields up. The shields and the helmet were to afford some protection from the rotten veggies and eggs that is the traditional greeting from the attendees.
Unlike the Presidents 14 or so teleprompters, our chief forgoes that crutch; however, he does have a 12-foot chain-link fence around the podium. The podium is higher than normal and it comes up to eye level.
It is normal for any speech to start out highlighting the good things first, followed by the less than good things and then ending with solutions to the problems.
This year’s ‘State of the County’ started with the ill chosen opening remark of “We’re screwed”. As you can imagine pandemonium ensued and the audience change ammo to watermelons and bricks. At this point even the SWAT team beat a hasty retreat, but quickly returned with high-pressure hoses at full blast.
The desired calm quickly followed and the County chief was coaxed out from under the podium with a cattle prod and the speech was continued, albeit very rapidly in a shaky voice.
Taking a page from the President’s last three SOTU addresses the county chief blamed everything that is bad in Harmony County alternately on George W. Bush, his father, George H. W. Bush, Bush’s Beans and the Burning Bush. (Safety Tip: Do not go within ten yards of the last item listed after a meal of the third item.)
The Bush league remarks lacked support and Bush bashing is considered beating around the Bush at best. People wanted something more substantial than shrubbery.
Echoing the President’s remarks about keeping students in school until their 18th birthday brought some questions from the damp crowd. “Does time served in Juvie Hall count, I learned a lot there”? “Does this mean we are going to have to hire more fifth grade teachers, expand the parking lots and daycare facilities”?
The Chief went on to say we must all continue to look for alternate sources of coffee creamers. This is considered odd by many since he put the kibosh on plans to install a pipeline from the Doob Dairy Farm to the Cbango Creamery. He stated that he needed another four years to study it.
The speech ended pretty much as it started as tomatoes filled the air followed by another hosing.
Never fear, the next day it was business as usual.© 2012, Jim McGowan
You call this sport?
In the course of my surprisingly long life, when I attend class reunions I am always asked, “You’re still alive?” I have participated in what could be called unconventional sports.
To be honest, for a change of pace, some of the recreational activities I have participated in can be called, a. ‘exhilarating’ or 2. ‘adventurous’ or c. ‘stupid’. Going back to school days when taking multiple-guess tests remember the rule-of-thumb, “When in doubt always pick ‘c’”.
A while back, I was visiting an Army buddy inCalifornia. At the time, he was a devotee of hang gliding. This was before the days of licensed instructors and tandem gliding with pros that would show you how it is safely done.
After a night of well-lubricated reminiscences, we found ourselves on a very steep, near cliff-like, hill overlooking the Pacific. As I was getting my flight instructions, which took all of five minutes, I was strapped into the flimsy wing and it was, “Off we go into the wild blue yonder” which in this case was wet.
I have to admit the flight was exciting. It was the landing that gave me a bad time. I tried to go into the wind, but no luck so I ended up running as fast as I could, but I could not slow down. I then made a perfect three-point landing, both elbows and my chin.
I would strongly suggest to our friends inCalifornia that if they must walk their dogs on the beach bring along a pooper-scooper and a plastic bag. To those who would like to canter their horses oceanside, bring a shovel and a very large plastic bag. People are trying to land face-first in your waterfront litter box.
As risky as hang gliding may sound the most trouble I ever got into was playing golf. “Golf!” you say. Golf it is.
I have been threatened by every possible creature found in the woods from furious chipmunks to lovesick deer. The chipmunks can be gently brushed aside and the most golf carts can out run a territorial deer. In the worst case deer cannot climb trees. However the mammalian inhabitants are a bunch of lightweights in comparison to our reptilian representatives.
Since I play my golf in the places where these critters feel they have squatter’s rights and they enforce them. I have come to be able to identify snakes at a single glance or the slightest rattle. However, the real bad actors amongst the ‘Johnny No Shoulders’ crowd, the Copper Head and the Water Moccasin, have brought me to the point where I carry a change of undies in my golf bag.
However, for reasons I cannot understand, the crocodilians give me the worst time. I have been chased by caimans in the Canal Zone, crocodiles in Florida and alligators in Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia, Louisiana, and South Carolina.
My playing partners all say the same thing, “For an old guy he can really move, Yeah, but he screams like a little girl”. I guess I smell like lunch. © 2012, Jim McGowan
