Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Spousal Communications

Have you ever wondered, after you overheard one side of a phone conversation, whether you were, in fact, meant to overhear it?  Case in point:

"He gave you Grocery Store Flowers?  And you're upset because they're Grocery Store Flowers

Honey, you should be grateful!  The only flowers yer father ever gives me are Grocery Store Flowers, and God knows, I'm grateful!  Hell, if it wasn't for Grocery Store Flowers . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."

Ok, I get the picture.  Lady down the street has a nice garden.  She's not outside much, especially after dark.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Bible Foretells Windows Vista

Abraham has decided to upgrade his PC from XP to Vista.  Calls in his son Isaac to review the specifications.  Isaac says, "Dad, I think you've got enough disc space, and your processor is a little slower than Bill prefers, but the real problem is that you're short of memory."

Abraham pauses, lifts his eyes skyward, then murmurs, "Son, God will provide the RAM."

If you don't get it then I guess you never placed in the money in any of Miss Bertha Bokelheid's Sunday School quizzes.

Monday, February 5, 2007

The Golf Gantlet Clatters To The Floor

 
Gents,  I sadly must decline the rare opportunity.  I have entered a weight loss contest with 425 other portly denizens of the pine cone city.  I have informed the Az Daily Sun which is sponsoring this event that someone would have to have liposuction, lapse into a 14 week coma, or have one of their larger appendages amputated in order to beat me.  They did see fit to publish my picture last Sun as the penultimate shedder of avoirdupois to this date.  I would be in first place if alcohol were calorie free or if ,heaven forbid, I merely didn't ingest any.  Yeah, like that's gonna' happen.  I'm afraid that hanging with the likes of you (and you are my kind of people) will abnegate my current resolve.
 
Best Wishes to all and I think someone should at least send me 1/2 of the putt pot for allowing one of you chumps to win that event.
 
E
 
Ernie - You know I mean no offense, but look Chubbo, the exercise would benefit you. 
 
Whanging and flailing with your much-abused putter through the underbrush of the hinterlands in lower Arizona is just what you need to leapfrog your twenty-score competitors.  That and a warm, soapy shower shared with Gregg might do more for your not-surprisingly tepid self image than starving your bloated ass to dump one more case off the proverbial beer truck disguised on your body as Dunlop Disease. 
 
If a sleek, athletic body was worth having, do you think Mohr would look the way he does?  OK, bad example.  But the warm soapy shower with Gregg has to have you reconsidering.  (I've found it's best to let him pick up his own dropped soap, by the way.)  Think about it, compose your most irascible response, and join the jumbucks.  Let's hear from you, laddie.  C'mon!!!

Friday, February 2, 2007

Turn It Off!

It's easy to think of the electricity we use in our homes as a benign energy source.  Plug it in, turn it on, great things happen, no smoke, no noise, no stinkum.

Wrong, bucko.

Take your desktop computer.  It is probably consuming something like 350 watts or so.  Lots of peeps never, ever turn them off.  Well, those of us running any version of Windows have to periodically reboot, but other than that, why not just leave it on?

Here's why: now pay atention.  Most of the electricity in the US, yea, even unto the world, is produced by burning coal.  Selah!  To produce 100 watts, 24/7 for a year, 714 pounds - that's right - of coal must be burned.  And that's not all.  Burning the coal to keep that 100 watt bulb on continuously for a year pumps 5 pounds of sulfur dioxide (think acid rain), a bit more than 5 pounds of nitrogen oxide, and 1852 pounds of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.  All that for a measly 100 watts per year.

Get up, right now, and go turn something off.  Resolve to keep turning stuff off.  Pull out those ugly wall warts from their sockets if you're not actively charging something.  Get mad at those LED's staring at you, unblinking.  LED's don't use much electricity, but every bit counts.  We've probably already passed the tipping point on global warming, but if you and yours all turn off everything you can, maybe we can slow our descent into that particular hell.  You still sitting there?

Thursday, February 1, 2007

Why We Mourn Barbaro

He never talked about himself in the third person.

He didn’t trash-talk, taunt or hang on the rim. Down the stretch of the Kentucky Derby, he didn’t turn and point at Bluegrass Cat, and he didn’t somersault over the finish line. After crossing the line, he didn’t pull out a Sharpie and autograph his saddle for his business manager.

He never referred to his handlers as “my supporting cast.”

He never tried to renegotiate his contract. He never turned down an eight-figure offer by saying, “I’ve got a family to feed, man.”

His only tattoo was discreetly hidden.

He did no commercials for cellphone plans, credit cards, fast food chains or time shares.

He never had his agent issue a statement in which he apologized “if anybody took my actions the wrong way.”

He never appeared before a Congressional committee and lied about his steroid use.

He never dated Paris Hilton.

He was never involved in an altercation with a belligerent fan outside a club at 4 in the morning. He was never arrested for drunken driving. He did not own an unregistered handgun.

He never claimed he’d been disrespected. He never left his competitors in the dust and then said, ”I didn’t have my A game.” He did not attribute his victories to the glory of his personal Savior.

Isiah Thomas never tried to trade for him.

He was never a presenter at the ESPYs.

He never claimed he was misquoted in his autobiography. He never confessed to a double murder in the subjunctive tense.

He trained, ate and slept. He ran his races, gave his best effort, accepted plaudits graciously, went back to his stall and prepared to do it again the next time out.

He never fathered multiple offspring out of wedlock. Alas.

 - by Jeff Neuman