Today’s post is going to be somewhat short, because Bill and I have some plans for today and we need to get a somewhat early start. So instead of going off on a coffee fueled sermon, today I’m going to write about an article I found puzzling on several levels.
Now, some readers know that I lived in South Carolina for about three years, and I am a graduate of its flagship state university, The University of South Carolina. Er… that’s where I went to graduate school, anyway. I am pretty familiar with the culture in the southeastern United States. I still had to chuckle this morning when I read about how a family found a pilot in their backyard.
The incident happened last Sunday. The pilot was flying a F-35B Lightning II fighter jet , which belonged to training squadron of the 2nd Marine Aircraft Wing. It had taken off from Joint Base Charleston on Sunday afternoon and was doing a routine training exercise, along with another plane.
For some reason, the pilot ejected, and the aircraft, which is reportedly one of the most advanced fighter jets in the world and has a price tag to match, was left to crash on its own. The pilot landed somewhat safely in a backyard, while the jet was found in Williamsburg County, about 60 miles northeast of where the pilot landed. Because of its status as a very advanced fighter jet, the whole area where the plane crashed is going to have to be cordoned off and scoured, because that plane has a lot of classified information onboard that will have to be stowed somewhere safe (that is, not in Trump’s bathroom at Mar-a-Lago).
I’m certainly not going to judge the pilot for ejecting. He’s 47 years old, and presumably has a whole lot of experience flying jets. I do think that unless he has an extremely good explanation for ejecting, his career is probably over. But as yet, I don’t know why he bailed on the very advanced stealth fighter jet– a former part of one of the Department of Defense’s most expensive programs, costing taxpayers $1.7 trillion over its lifespan. I’m going to assume he had a very good reason that involved saving his own life. The article I linked did mention that the F-35s, for all of their gadgetry and aeronautic wizardry, seem to break down frequently. That might be what happened in this case. The pilot had mentioned there was a “aircraft failure”. I’m just glad the aircraft crashed in a wooded area where there, apparently, weren’t any people on the ground.
Whew… at least no one was seriously hurt!
What prompts me to write about this today is the way the residents of the home where the pilot landed called 911. It cracked me up. The caller said:
“I guess we’ve got a pilot in our house, and he says he got ejected.”
First off, this is a pretty bizarre thing to happen. So I can understand why the caller was hesitant to state for sure that they had a pilot at their house who had ejected. I’m sure the person was shocked. The 911 operator was also surprised and responded thusly:
“I’m sorry — what happened?”
But then came the very polite and hopeful request for the ambulance…
“We’ve got a pilot in the house, and I guess he landed in my backyard, and we’re trying to see if we could get an ambulance to the house, please,”
You guess he landed there? Is it possible he landed in someone else’s backyard and came to your house to bug you specifically? And now you’re “trying” to see if you “could” get an ambulance? It seems like such a very polite request after such a weird occurrence!
I’m kidding, of course. These folks were, no doubt, completely dumbfounded that this happened to them. It’s kind of like when you play The Sims, look up into the sky, and suddenly get killed by a falling satellite. It just isn’t something that happens to the vast majority of people. Life is strange. I get that. I still couldn’t help but crack up at the very courtly and civilized request for an ambulance.
The pilot then gets on the phone and explains:
“We have a military jet crash. I’m the pilot. We need to get rescue rolling. I’m not sure where the airplane is,” the pilot tells the dispatcher. “It would have crash-landed somewhere. I ejected.”
The pilot also said he had some back pain (I can imagine) and needed to be checked out by a doctor… naturally! So he went to the hospital and stayed overnight.
Now see, I read this and shake my head in wonder. The pilot fell about 2000 feet, parachuting into a stranger’s backyard, and still offered a response to 911 that seems much more rational and normal than his very polite surprise hosts did. If it were me, I think I would have been very surprised and animated. There might have even been some gratuitous profanity.
I can only wonder what the residents said as the pilot departed their home. Perhaps they invited him to drop in again sometime? Only next time, I hope he arrives at their house by land!
Hopefully, the pilot is okay in all ways and his career survives the impact of this crash landing… He certainly kept his wits about him. As for the people who called 911, I wish them well, too. Hopefully, there wasn’t any damage done to their yard when the pilot dropped in on their Sunday. The 911 dispatcher now has a call they can forever share with friends and family. Other than the plane crash costing taxpayers millions and generating work for the military, this story has a pretty happy ending. That’s always a good thing.
Well, I guess I’ll end today’s post and get dressed. We’ve got somewhere to go and something to do… (for once). Hopefully, no ambulances will be involved.
I’m running short on ideas today, and I’m feeling a bit silly. I ran across this post from October 2018 on my original blog. It’s a ridiculous story idea I had back then involving Pernell Roberts, Howard Keel, and Mr. Yuk. I used to write a lot of fiction stories to pass the time, as well as to creatively express myself when people got on my nerves. I don’t write much fiction these days, but since these two posts made me laugh, I’ve decided to share them today. I doubt anyone will read them, but at least they won’t cause controversy.
An erotic story involving Pernell Roberts, Howard Keel, and Mr. Yuk… (originally written October 10, 2018)
I’m sure I could find any number of outrageous news stories to rant about today. I will probably do just that in a little while. It’s just that I’ve noticed my blog is not as much fun as it has been in the past. I’ve been dealing with a little depression and anxiety lately, which has had a noticeable effect on my writing.
Yesterday, I had a random idea of writing a fiction story about the late actor, Pernell Roberts. I know him best from his years as Trapper John, M.D., but other people remember him from Bonanza. I remember he also starred in a Lassie movie back in 1978. In that film, he played a bad guy.
Sexy Pernell Roberts… there was a time when my dad could sing sort of like this. I can appreciate it now, but didn’t so much when I was growing up. Pernell Roberts had a lovely singing voice, though. Many people thought my dad had a lovely voice, too. He probably did and I just didn’t like it because of our fucked up father/daughter relationship. Oh… and the fact that he wasn’t trained.
I think Mr. Roberts is on my mind because I somehow wound up subscribed to a YouTube channel honoring him. Someone uploaded a bunch of episodes of Trapper John, M.D. and I started watching them last night because Bill is in Italy. He’ll be back tonight– it was just a one night trip– but I’ll still be alone until after bedtime. Maybe I’ll watch more Trapper John, M.D., or maybe I’ll make music. Who knows? Or maybe I’ll spend the day writing silly stories for those who enjoy my warped sense of humor.
Anyway, I noticed that a number of female commenters on the YouTube videos were saying they thought Pernell Roberts was “sexy”. I have to admit, now that I am myself middle aged, I agree that he was rather sexy in those days. Of course, Trapper John was a typically strong male character on the TV show. He was authoritarian, particularly with his female patients. Some women are turned on by a strong man who tells them to get in bed and stay there. Actor Gregory Harrison, who played hospital Lothario Gonzo Gates, was probably there for the younger crowd. Both of them were such caring dudes… and so skilled as they saved their patients from whatever devastating malady they had while romancing them under the sheets.
Then, as I started thinking about Pernell Roberts, I remembered the late actor Howard Keel and how he always reminded me of a horse peeing on a rock. I mean, he was really tall and probably made a lot of noise because of the length his whiz had to drop. I remember seeing him in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, which was filmed in the 1950s, when he was young and studly. But as a child of the 70s and 80s, I remember him best when he was on Dallas, playing Clayton Farlow. Maybe it was because all of the horses they used on that show and the fact that I’ve spent a lot of time around horses and know what they sound like when they pee… especially the geldings.
Damn… I would love to have a horse that did this! Cleaning up horse pee is no fun, especially when it’s hot outside.
The guy who officiated at my wedding, then a Presbyterian minister and now a Certified Nurse’s Aide and Catholic, asked me if my erotic story involving Pernell Roberts would involve surgical instruments or horses. And that just made me think of Howard Keel peeing on a rock again.
Oh my God… speaking of piss. This is probably one of the most cornball pop songs of the 1980s. What in the hell possessed Howard Keel to sing this over any one of the classic standards he did in his prime?
So then, just as I was gathering ideas about other things I could put in my erotic story, I caught this clip from 1988, starring the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Front and center is current Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader Director, Kelli Finglass, back when she was in her prime and still on the squad…
I was about 16 when they did this. Look at that hair! And those shorts look almost like granny panties compared to what they wear today. My hair was never quite that big. For the record, I prefer Kelli’s hair the lovely shade of red it is now. Frosted, frizzy blonde doesn’t flatter her.
Finally, someone shared this picture of Brett Kavanaugh, who will always be a glorified frat boy to me…
And I was reminded of this… I wonder if Kavanaugh has ever made this face before having sex with someone. I wonder if anyone has ever made this face before having sex with him…
Wow… they could be brothers.
Maybe I should write a story involving all of these people. It wouldn’t even have to be erotic. I could probably have some fun with it, kill some time, and stay out of trouble. I do have a very strange mind sometimes, especially when I’m bored.
My latest book is about the East German police, so it’s probably just as well if I write some fiction or something, before I start having nightmares about the Stasi. Shit… I might as well do it.
And here it is…
Mr. Yuk gets a treatment he’ll never forget… (written later on October 10, 2018)
Let’s see where my warped imagination takes me… This story is pure fictional nonsense, pulled straight from the bowels of my mind. It took about an hour to write this and it probably shows.
It was an unseasonably cool, fall afternoon at San Francisco Memorial Hospital. The year was 1982. Dr. John McIntyre, otherwise known as Trapper, was looking dashing in his surgical scrubs, having just removed Clayton Farlow’s appendix. He was feeling pumped up, because he’d just told Farlow to go to bed and stay there. It gave Trapper a rush to tell people what to do, especially guys who were taller and more famous than he was.
Farlow was lying in bed, groaning because the incision where his appendix had been removed was a little itchy. But because Trapper was both authoritarian and a little kinky, he’d had Farlow’s wrists tied to the bedrails. It was only because Farlow was just coming out of the anesthesia and might try to monkey with the tubes and such.
“Don’t worry, Kid,” Trapper had told him as he tenderly adjusted Farlow’s oxygen mask, “we’ll untie your wrists when you have your wits more about you. I’ll be back later.”
Farlow grimaced as he watched his sexy doctor prance away. Farlow wasn’t into men sexually, but he’d been in show business longer than Trapper had and learned to appreciate the beauty in everything and everyone. Besides, whatever drugs Trapper had given him were wonderful, even if his incision was a little itchy.
For all of his fame on Broadway and primetime television, Farlow had not managed to score a private room. Lying in the bed next to his was a guy popularly known as Mr. Yuk. His name was actually Brett, though, and he was quite the whiny brat. Farlow cast a disapproving look at the young man– all of seventeen years old– lying in his hospital bed looking really disgruntled and bored. He looked like this…
Farlow wanted to ask Brett why he was so yucky. The boy had a constant scowl on his face, like he smelled something disgusting or had just walked in on his parents having sex. But the oxygen mask prevented Farlow from saying anything intelligible and he was embarrassed about his wrists being restrained. So Farlow remained curious while Brett clicked the remote control on the boxy TV, trying to find something interesting to watch. He finally stopped on a channel featuring a certain female collie named Lassie.
“Yeah…” Brett snarled. “This is more like it. I like watching bitches on TV.”
Good entertainment for the sick…
Farlow rolled his eyes as he recognized familiar faces… There was Mickey Rooney, Pernell Roberts, who looked a whole lot like Trapper, James Stewart, Alice Faye, and music by his old friends, Pat Boone and daughter, Debby. Good old fashioned, wholesome, kid friendly entertainment! It was just what the doctor ordered!
“I really could use a beer.” Brett snarled to himself. “Fuck being stuck in the hospital. This place sucks!”
Just then, a pretty nurse named Kelli came into the room. She was all smiles and had a figure that could stop traffic! Her hair was as big as her smile was, and Brett could see that her starched white nurse’s uniform was just a little shorter than it should have been. Casting his eyes downward, he could see the nurse’s adorable knees covered by her white tights. He looked at her shoes. They were sensible nurse’s shoes, showing that the woman was just as intelligent as she was sexy.
“Hello Mr. Farlow.” Kelli chirped as she checked his vital signs. She moved like a dancer, her catlike grace surprisingly apparent as she moved about the tight quarters, cleverly keeping her sweet ass away from Brett’s reach. “You’re looking much better today.” she said, checking his temperature. “Your fever is almost gone! Trapper will be happy to hear this! Yea!”
Farlow looked hopefully at his wrists, but the nurse didn’t seem to notice his distress. Instead, she adjusted the oxygen mask one last time and turned her attention to Mr. Yuk, aka Brett the brat.
“How are we feeling?” Nurse Kelli asked as she recorded Brett’s blood pressure.
“This place sucks. I have so many calendars I need to update. I need to get back to school. I’m missing so many keggers it’s not funny.” Brett whined. “I’m being held against my will.”
“I’m sure you’ll be out of here before you know it.” the nurse said. “You know, once you’re eighteen, you can check yourself out whenever you want. For now, we have to wait for the doctor and your parents to say it’s okay.”
Kelli turned away from Brett, who then took the opportunity to pinch her ass.
“Ouch!” Kelli yelped. “I see why they call you Mr. Yuk now!” she scolded as Brett’s face turned into that familiar scowl. “You really are a naughty boy. We’ll have to see what we can do about that.”
“Stop trying to impugn my character.” Brett snapped.
“I’ll be back later.” Kelli promised. “Enjoy the movie.”
With a heavy sigh, Brett turned his attention back to Lassie and her young master, on the run from Pernell Roberts’ evil character, Jameson. He was about to start singing along with Pat Boone when Trapper barged into the room. He started checking Farlow and then untied the man’s wrists.
“You seem ‘with it’ now.” Trapper said as he patted his patient on the head, patronizingly.
Farlow eagerly reached up and pulled the mask off his face. “Can we get rid of this damned thing too? It feels like a gag.” he complained.
Trapper frowned a bit, looked concerned, and said, “Well, not so fast… let’s not rush things… You’re going to be in here for a week. What’s your hurry?”
He glanced up at the television and saw Pernell Roberts chasing Lassie, calling her Heatherbelle. “Man, I hope that guy gets his dog back.” Trapper said under his breath.
Trapper moved over to Brett, who was looking really disagreeable. “Fuck this place.” Brett muttered. “I just want a motherfuckin’ beer.”
“Now now, young man…” Trapper said. “Take it easy. You’re in a hospital. Time to rest. Let Kelli take care of you.”
“Tell her to bring me a beer… and pizza. This hospital food sucks.” Brett said with a scowl.
“Young man, your attitude could use some adjusting. Perhaps it’s time I prescribed a treatment to help you with your problem.” Trapper suggested.
“Fuck that, and fuck you. I need to get out of here and on with my life. I have social ladders to climb and women to plumb.” Brett hissed.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Trapper asked incredulously. “You don’t realize you’ve entered another dimension.”
“The only other dimension I want to enter is a beer and nurse Kelli’s vagina.” Brett snapped.
“I see…” Trapper said, his voice steady. “Well that makes me think you really do need treatment for your problem. I may have to introduce you to another doctor… a woman who really knows your mind.”
“I don’t need that. I just want to party.” Brett said. “Why is that so hard to understand? And why do I have to stay in this Godforsaken place? My home is on the East Coast, with all the other snot nosed brats.”
“I see. Well, I think it would do you some good to talk to Dr. Ford.” Trapper said. “She’s a maverick in her field, but I think she can straighten you out… maybe get that yucky look off your face.”
“I don’t want to talk to her.” Brett sniveled.
“Okay… well then maybe Nurse Kelli can give you an enema to help kill the bug up your ass.” Trapper suggested. “You seem a bit constipated.”
“Hmmmph.” Brett huffed, sullenly turning his eyes back to the TV.
Farlow was watching this scene with interest, although he really needed to pee. He somehow found the energy to ask Trapper for help going to the bathroom.
“Sure pal.” Trapper said. “Usually, I’d let the nurses handle this, but I can see you’re a man’s man.” The bearded, distinguished doctor came over and helped Farlow out of bed. He was grateful Nurse Kelli had already removed the man’s catheter. They went into the bathroom and Farlow let out a long and very loud stream of piss that reverberated throughout the semi-private room.
“For God’s sake!” Brett complained. “Do you have to be so loud? You sound like a horse peeing on a rock!”
“Sorry… I really had to pee.” Farlow apologized.
“Well do you have to be so fucking loud?” Brett scowled. “No fucking class!”
Farlow gave Trapper a grateful look as he rolled his eyes.
“That kid is such a brat.” Trapper said sympathetically. “Sorry you have to share quarters with him.”
“No worries… I once shared a house with six brothers.” Farlow said. “And they were all horny because they were looking for wives.”
“I think that’s Brett’s problem, too. He’s a spoiled, horny, little bastard.” Trapper said. “And he’s also a drunk. He needs a good spanking to teach him some manners. I’m tempted to let Nurse Kelli practice some procedures on him, but he’d probably enjoy that too much.”
“I’ve never seen anyone scowl so much.” Farlow admitted as he washed his hands. “He really is very unpleasant indeed.”
“Nurse Kelli will fix him… with help from Dr. Ford.” Trapper promised as he walked his patient back to bed.
Farlow was safely tucked into bed, where he nodded off. He was right in the middle of a pleasant dream in which he was at Southfork Ranch, making mad passionate love with Miss Ellie, when he was awakened by a blood curdling scream.
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” Brett was screaming. He had climbed out of bed and was cornered by a couple of beefy orderlies who were holding a straitjacket.
“Now, now, Mr. Yuk…” one of the orderlies soothed. Farlow blinked his eyes and realized the head orderly was a very muscular woman. She was flanked by two huge guys who looked like they could be linebackers for the Dallas Cowboys. Behind her was Nurse Kelli with a syringe at the ready. A cameraman stood in the corner, filming everything. It looked just like a dramatic scene on Trapper John, M.D.
“Get away from me! I haven’t given you CONSENT!” Brett fumed.
The head orderly advanced at her patient, and with one swift move, pinned him to the bed. He shrieked in fear as another orderly placed his hand over the young man’s mouth and the other orderly efficiently wrapped him up in the straitjacket. Nurse Kelli then gave him an injection that rendered him more compliant.
“Wha…” Brett stammered. “What are…”
“Shhh…” Nurse Kelli said, her Pepsodent smile radiating across her pretty features. “It’s just part of your treatment. Dr. Ford will be with you in a moment. Just got to wait for you to relax a bit. That way it won’t hurt as much.”
The orderlies tucked their patient into bed, put up the siderails, and left the room while Nurse Kelli stood by, monitoring the young man with the Mr. Yuk scowl.
“This would go so much better if you’d just cooperate.” Nurse Kelli said. “Take your medicine like a good boy.”
“Fucking bitch!” the young man shrieked. “I’ll get you for this.”
“Right… I’m sure you will. Just relax. Dr. Ford will see you at her convenience.” Nurse Kelli said. “If you’re lucky, she won’t make you wait for what’s coming to you.”
Brett scowled again as he glared at the nurse. Her chirpy demeanor and perfect smile were pissing him off even more as he struggled against the rough canvas of the straitjacket. Farlow glanced over at the spectacle, suddenly glad his own medical bondage scene had been short lived.
A minute later, the door opened and there stood a middle aged blonde woman in a very stylish business suit. She wore glasses and sensible heels as she strode over to her unruly patient.
“Hello Dr. Ford.” Nurse Kelli said, her voice rich with admiration.
“Nurse…” the doctor said. “So this is the patient. He’s permanently scowling, isn’t he? Needs a little help with his attitude…”
“Yes, I think so. I’ve heard you can do amazing things with the mind.” Nurse Kelli gushed. “I would love to study under you…”
Brett and Farlow both looked at the attractive psychologist and thought the same thing. But Farlow was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and Brett was too busy scowling to make his feelings known.
“You know…” Dr. Ford said. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to reach him with just simple conversation. I think it’s time we forced him to watch something other than Lassie.” She nodded at the television. “Change the channel… Lifetime should do it. A nice long marathon of movies about women who have been sexually harassed and date raped ought to be a good start.”
Nurse Kelli’s eyes widened. “Do I get to stay in the room and supervise him?” she breathed.
“I’m not opposed to it.” Dr. Ford shrugged. “That’s just the beginning… we’ll start with Lifetime TV, then move on to Dr. Phil. Then a steady diet of Kathie Lee Gifford…”
“What?!” Brett shouted. “I’ve never even heard of these things!”
“Lucky for you, I’m from the future.” Dr. Ford said. “You’re going to get a headstart on the 1990s and the 2000s. Then I’ll go back to the future.”
“Why?” Brett asked plaintively.
“Because big things are in store for you… and if you don’t get straightened out now, you will fuck up a lot of lives.” Dr. Ford said, smoothing her blonde hair.
“I don’t have time for this.” Brett sneered.
“We’ll see that you make time. And if you’re difficult about it, I can think of some very fun ways to make you comply.” Dr. Ford said. “Don’t try me, young man.”
Brett sighed heavily. “Yes Ma’am… Let the re-education begin.”
“I’m sure you’ll be good and ready for the future after a few Lifetime movies. Every man should watch them so they can learn proper respect.” Dr. Ford said.
END
And here is the one comment I got on this tripe…
I like it, an instant story! Write more.
Maybe I should… especially now that my former monitor is no longer monitoring me.
The weekend is already over! What a bummer that is! Actually, I’m glad another week of August is over, as I’m looking forward to less hot and muggy weather. This year, we’ve had a pretty mild summer. That’s a blessing, when you live in a country where air conditioned buildings are not the norm. However, it’s still pretty warm, and I’m tired of sweating just for sitting outside.
You might be wondering about today’s blog title. No, it’s not about Bill and me. We’re still pretty tight. Actually, today’s post refers to a funny comment someone left on a recent advice column article in The Irish Times. Some poor woman had written that her marriage of 20 years was breaking up, and though her husband was still living with her, he was refusing to be affectionate. She wrote that it was an especially bad time for this to be happening, since she’s also caring for someone who is dying.
Lots of Irish folks chimed in, writing that the husband was cheating. One especially clever man wrote “Welcome to Dumpsville! Population: You!”
That struck me as funny, so I posted a comment… It went something like this. “I visit Dumpsville for a long, stinky stay every morning.” Sorry, but when anyone mentions anything involving the word “dump”, my mind goes straight down the toilet.
This is kind of my mood today…
The Irish Times is always good for a laugh, if only from its readers. Sure, it’s disturbing how many of the folks who read that paper are far right leaning, but some of the comments are wickedly funny. In fact, this morning, I was reminded of a comment from last year that had me rolling so hard that I posted about it on Facebook. It showed up in my memories this morning.
This just goes to show you that if you need amusement, just consult the advice columns posted by the Irish Times. Check out the Facebook comments. You’ll probably laugh.
Most newspaper comment sections can be infuriating, though. Take, for instance, an article posted on The New York Times about Tropical Storm Hilary. Note the spelling of the storm’s name… only one “l”, not two. But that doesn’t stop all of the MAGA Cult #45ists, coming out in droves!
Here’s Donald Trump, indicted multiple times in different jurisdictions, battling lawsuits out his substantial ass. And as a side note, I’ll bet he spends plenty of time in Dumpsville, too. You’d think people with normal intelligence would understand that even if you are politically conservative, he’s BAD for America. The man is deep legal trouble. It’s time to move on and find someone else to be the Republican nominee. But those damned MAGA morons will NOT let it go, and they show up to spread their goddamned political manure everywhere, even on a news story about a fucking tropical storm in California!
Here’s what a person named Sue observed:
This article is about a tropical storm NOT politics. Some of these comments are ridiculous!!! Just my thoughts. Everyone has a right to their own thoughts.
I’m with you, Sue. I wish the MAGA extremists would give their Trump obsession a rest. I’d like to have some faith in more of my fellow Americans. But it’s not to be… Behold!
I didn’t comment on this, but if I did, I’d say that the fact that she’s still championing Trump tells me all I need to know about her. He’s deranged, and so are his followers.
If you’re so spun up about the presidential election happening next year that you have to turn a news article about the weather into something political, we don’t need to know you personally to know that you’re not too tightly wrapped. I think the guy who responded to Rhonda is correct. Her mind is not her own. You know that old Beach Boys song, “Help Me, Rhonda?” Well, I think it’s time someone helped Rhonda out with a clue. I actually have a soft spot for people named Rhonda. I used to have an awesome cocker spaniel/English setter mixed dog named Rhonda. I think she was wiser than Trumper Rhonda is… It’s pretty bad when you’re so stuck up Trump’s ass that you turn a weather story into something political.
Poor Rhonda. She really needs help.
If I felt like wasting time, I could respond to Rhonda at length about how much I think life is so much better without Trump in office. For one thing, it’s nice to see someone in office who doesn’t spend all his time golfing, tweeting, and setting up stunts designed to convince people that his dick is much larger than it really is. For another, I don’t have to read about Trump’s ridiculous policies that literally hurt people. And I don’t feel ashamed when I tell people where I’m from, like I did when Trump was president. Do you know how many Europeans asked me about how I felt about him? A whole lot of them… and they used my answer as a barometer of sanity and good sense.
I don’t think Biden is the best president we’ve ever had, but he’s certainly not as bad as Trump was. He’s basically competent and decent, even if he is elderly. I wouldn’t be sad if he decided not to run for president again, but since it’s clear he’s going to run, I’m going to support him. Why? Because Trump literally doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and it’s an outrage that anyone with a functioning brain is still considering him fit for office. There was a time when a politician’s simple misspelling of the word “potato” would end with endless ridicule from the citizenry and personal disgrace. Now, we put up with presidential candidates who have a real shot at scoring a spot in prison.
Actually, I doubt Trump will ever go to prison, but I think a lot of his minions will be going. And he won’t do a fucking thing to help them. But maybe he’ll throw some more ketchup at the wall while he demands a goddamned military parade.
I just want to see normal people running for office. I want the three ring circus to end. I want people to stop bickering with strangers on social media and turning every news item into political bullshit. It’s time we came together and functioned as a country. But I don’t think it will happen again in my lifetime… which is why I’m avoiding doctors and hoping to be beamed up soon. I’ve lost a lot of my optimism and I fear the hellscape is getting closer by the day. At least I can take comfort in knowing that my particular branch of the family tree will end with me.
Anyway… it’s a Monday, and that means another week of whatever comes. So, I guess it’s time I signed off the blog and got to work on my chores. Hope you have a good day… or, at least the day you deserve. 😀
Here’s another repost. I wrote this for the original Blogspot version of OH on October 28, 2015. I’m leaving it as/is, and sharing it again because I think it’s a hilarious story! The featured photo is one of me, taken January 22, 2022, while wearing my Mister Rogers middle finger ballcap. That was one of my more entertaining Amazon.de purchases.
Last night, just before drifting off to sleep, I read a funny news story about a woman who managed to ward off Planned Parenthood protesters with a funny chant. Sunday of last weekend, 29 year old Mary Numair was working a shift at Purrington’s Cat Lounge in Portland, Oregon when she noticed some people with signs standing outside. One of the women was holding a sign that read “Abortion kills children.”
Being the type of person who helps others, Numair went outside to tell the protesters that they were at the wrong address. When one of the women insisted that she and her fellow protesters were in the right spot, Numair decided to launch a counter protest. Using cardboard and rudimentary art skills, she made a big sign that read “Dear PP, Thanks for helping me with my yeast infections!” She drew a stick figure of a woman with big boobs and a smiley clitoris. Then she went outside and joined the protesters.
A few years earlier, Numair had chronic yeast infections that were not cleared up by the over the counter medications available at stores. She had no health insurance, so she went to Planned Parenthood for help. They helped her and she stopped suffering. No more itching, burning, or weeping “down there”. I’m sure it was a big relief AND she didn’t go broke getting a cure.
The protesters called Numair a whore within thirty seconds of her arrival, but she simply held up her sign and started chanting “Yeast infections!” She bent down and asked one of the kids if he or she knew about yeast infections. Then she did cheerleader style high kicks. The protesters were horrified and offended, even though one of them had called Numair a whore. But I guess the idea of someone’s recalcitrant yeast infections being cured by Planned Parenthood’s medical providers was too much for them to stomach. Within a half an hour, they got the hell out of Dodge.
Reading about Numair’s impromptu counter protest made me think that I need to pay a visit to Portland, Oregon sometime soon. I love that there are people in that city that aren’t afraid to chant about yeast infections to get obnoxious pro-lifers to move on. I also love that they have a “cat lounge” there and that Numair could feel free to counter protest without fear of being fired. Thinking about it further, I think it’s very appropriate that the protesters made a mistake and set up their picketing in front of a business that specializes in pussies…
On another note, I noticed that on a link to a different version of this story, a man named Frank wrote…
And you can go to any drug store and buy the cream instead of a billion dollar waste of government money!!!!
So I wrote, Her infections didn’t respond to the creams. She needed a prescription and was not insured. May you experience something similar.
And he wrote…There are prescription strength ones that are now OTC… And I buy my own W/O the gov.. I have experienced it! Shove it!
So I wrote,
She wasn’t able to use those medications when she had her yeast infections. She needed the ones that aren’t available OTC. If something is “prescription strength”, it can’t be sold OTC. That’s what “prescription strength” means. And if you have experienced vaginal yeast infections, I’m sure that’s a part of your life that should remain private. So…
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother to comment to guys like Frank… who is clearly an asshole with the intelligence of buttcrud. But I just made the above Mr. Rogers meme yesterday and felt the need to share it with more than a few people. And may I just say that I hope Frank does get a stubborn yeast infection in a place where the sun and Monistat don’t shine.
And I just posted some photos on my travel blog, if anyone’s interested. If you know my travel blog, you know that there will be a blow by blow account of this trip when I’m able to do it from my computer. But the shorter posts help me remember everything that happens on these adventures. I like to be very detailed, for the days when I can’t travel like this anymore… or maybe even for Bill’s daughter and grandchildren, who might want to know about our fun times when we’re not here anymore.
It’s good to be on vacation, although my heart rate was elevated for hours. I’m not a particularly fit person anymore, but my heart rate is usually normal, albeit not ideal. Last night, it hovered around 99-104 beats per minute. But, as I type this, it’s at 73 beats per minute. I was probably just nervous, stressed out, and dehydrated.
I didn’t mention this in the travel post today, but I want to mention it here, so I don’t forget. Yesterday, after we dropped off Noyzi, we decided to go to the airport from his “hotel”. I had visions of a nice, quiet lounge to wait for our flight in… but it was not to be! The lounge at the Frankfurt Airport was packed! We ended up sitting on an uncomfortable stool at a table that wasn’t clean when we sat down. We stayed there for a couple of hours, because there was simply nowhere else to sit.
An older German couple sat near us. They looked like hikers. They wore matching vests and carried matching backpacks. I could tell that they were very comfortable with each other and had a great rapport, as they ate from the lounge’s buffet.
I noticed them noticing Bill and me. Maybe they noticed how much chemistry we also have… similar to theirs. I got the sense that they liked being together as much as Bill and I like being together. It was nice to see.
At one point, some people left a couch open and I was going to grab it. But someone else got to it before I did. I went, “Too late!” The older couple laughed good-naturedly… not in a mean way, but in a very amused way. It WAS kind of funny, even if my legs were cramping and my back was protesting. I think I just resigned myself to sitting on the stool, unplugged…
On the plane, I was very glad that I could fit in the seat. 😉 And I was also glad we booked business class, as that gave us plenty of room. The seats in business class on Lufthansa are the same as the ones in economy, but they keep the middle seat open. We can afford to book business fares on short trips, so that’s what I do whenever I can. The flight was late starting, but was very smooth and calm. It was one hour and forty minutes. I could have watched a movie.
Anyway, it’s great to be on vacation. The featured photo alone was worth taking the trip. Norway is very beautiful, even if it’s probably more expensive than Switzerland is. I look forward to relaxing a bit, if I can. Norway is very beautiful. Maybe I’ll have a chance to write tomorrow, although we have to get up early for a train to Bergen that will take all day. If there’s WiFi and a place to plug in on the train, I could be writing there. We’ll see…
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