Words and Numbers 120/Mitt arises, ombudsmen, today in history & odd bits, skin tags
Posted on October 5, 2012
I watched the debate. The zen master got his ass whupped.
Pinnocochio Mitt was animated. I want drug tests before the next round. Joe and Paul won’t have to pee in a cup because we expect our VP’s to be colorful. Somebody slipped a little speed into Mitt’s water and a low level hypnotic into Obama’s. The CIA? Nah. They’re occupied stirring up trouble on the Turkey/Syria border. They figure we need another distraction like Afghanistan, you know, to keep us from pulling back the curtain and seeing the Wizard. I figure the press had something to do with it. To shake up the odds, make it look like Mitt has a shot at the job. Another, bizarre theory is we saw the real candidates. Mitt was an engaged, animated candidate who actually was a moderate who actually cared and Obama was a pedantic, introspective robot created in a lab by Democrat scientists who were trying for another FDR. Another theory, it’s just a fashion show, aired to let the voters see who the Puppet Masters decided to rule us for the next four years. The way I see it, any theory is good. You didn’t see any third or fourth party candidates, huh?
Every news program on locally has a team of reporters/investigators to look into any problem you might have. They’re the I-Team, Troubleshooters or they’ve got your back. It amounts to too many reporters not enough real hard news. There’s a team of reporters at your local news station ready to pry into any problem you have with the local body shop, real estate agent or make money at home scam you’ve got yourself wound up in. You call them, they talk to you, newsroom grunts do the investigation and a talking head chases down the miscreant on camera and demands answers. You watch and marvel at journalism in action and think about calling with a complaint about the local gas station. The one that always has gas prices a dime or more above the others but is open on holidays and late into the night. The gas station with the pin-up calendars in the office and the proprietor is a bit oily. News reporters have to start somewhere. Might as well have them stalk underhanded businessmen instead of loitering around the newsroom waiting for the next Board of Education meeting. They can practice their serious face in case some local celebrity dies. It’s usually some fresh faced new recruit who gets the nod. They look too young to be able to nuance the local stories like the anchors who know where every skeleton is hidden, so they make up for it by ambushing and chasing down their prey and earnestly asking if they intentionally cheated Mrs. Smith out of two hundred dollars for her last brake job. The shop owner they’ve tracked down is fleet of foot and has a lawyer who’ll handle everything. Here’s Mike with the weather.
Today in history: Harry Truman asked the American people to refrain from eating meat on Tuesday and poultry on Thursday. It wouldn’t work today because somebody would complain about government prying into our dietary habits. They’re trying to convince us that Mountain Dew isn’t a breakfast drink and diet Coke is not good to keep the two year old quiet. We’re not ready to give up our food for any supposedly starving second or third world country. We started from scratch. Why not them? Okay that’s a little extreme. We were a different country in 1947. We won the war in Europe and Japan. The axis didn’t lay a glove on us, except for Pearl Harbor and all those dead Americans we left all over Europe and the Pacific. We ruled and we could sacrifice a little more to help our brethren in Europe. Today we have people to take care of that. Our mail boxes are filled with requests for our help. On October 5 1902 Ray Kroc was born. He was a salesman who sold milkshake machines and bought a hamburger joint and turned it into one of the largest corporations in America and the world. He’s also responsible, in part, for the fact we’re tipping the scales way to far over what we’re supposed to weigh. Therein lies a tale: A young lad,me was driven by his father in a 1957 pink and gray Plymouth Belvedere to a new drive in restaurant called McDonald’s. It was in Newington, on the Berlin Turnpike. It was red and white striped with Golden Arches out front. The mascot was a hamburger-headed guy carrying a tray of burgers. There was a line, after all, you could get a three-coursr meal for 45 cents. They didn’t say that one course was a bag of skinny, over-salted french fries and another was a milkshake that was so thick you couldn’t drink it through a straw. There were lines. Hundreds of people had the same idea. My father didn’t care, he could wait. Or at least I could hold his place while he watched from the car. I had a bunch of those three course meals. Dad figured out a way around the thick shakes. He bought a medium Coke and mixed them in a cup saved and washed out from the last visit. My younger sister soon joined us. She was a fussy eater but Mickey D’s burger was fine as long as she tossed the pickle slice. In time I graduated to Quarter Pounders and Big Macs. Burger King and Wendy’s grew along side. I switched to Burger King and finally quit fast food altogether. Driving by the local Burger King and smelling the ersatz grill smoke still stirs a desire for a burger and fries, but I drive on. I feel self righteous when I drive past. I snigger at folks who’re hooked on fast food. I go home and fry a handmade personally seasoned burger in my seasoned cast iron skillet. I know I’m a burger snob, but look where I grew up from.
What are skin tags and why do we need to spend $19.95 to get rid of them? There’s ads on TV that are trying to sell some stuff to eliminate skin tags. From what I see they’re not too large and a pair of nail clippers could do the job. Are they a harbinger of some fatal disease? Or are they just another of the little quirks our body has? I don’t have them and if I did the nail clippers seem to be the way I’d go.
Support your local food bank. Read to a kid. Adopt a shelter pet. Be nice to someone you don’t like. Forgive a debt.
See you on Monday.