Showing posts with label rush limbaugh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rush limbaugh. Show all posts

Thursday, July 22, 2021

Rush Limbaugh, RIP

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Reading via monitor/tablet is recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Intended for H. sapiens that are — in the words of the late, great bon vivant and polymath, Professor Y. Bear — "Smarter [and cooler] than the av-er-age bear." 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"I say what I mean. I don't speak in code. That's why I am a star and ace communicator." -Rush Limbaugh


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

From the proceedings of the joint Committee For the Investigation of Intersectional Iniquities, established by order of Her Royal Highness and President for Life, Kamala Harris, 1/21/25. Senator Samuel T. Stumblebum presiding. 

"No, Senator, I declare, under oath, that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a ditto head." 

While I tuned in occasionally to the late Rush Limbaugh's radio show if I found myself out and about in one of my family's fossil fuel burning vehicles — now all recycled and replaced by battery-powered vehicles owned and assigned by the Ministry of Transport, of course — it was only for a few minutes at a time. 

I confess I was/am a bit of a Luddite and that while I love music, to this day I store no songs on my phone, nor do I have a clue as to how one would get them to play on what I still refer to as the "radio" in a car if I did. 

Thus, I used to check out talk shows on AM radio whenever FM music stations were getting on my nerves:

KRAP 99!  All soulless hits, all the time, created by celebrities with very odd hair and computer geeks with laptops!

Or, 

RUST 93! Your station for classic rock! We will play no song you haven't heard a thousand feckin' times!

Until I couldn't stand it anymore and turned the "radio" off... If I could figure out how to do so."

"And nowadays?" asked Senator Stumblebum. 

"I just let the vehicle do the driving while I hum to myself or read comic books issued by the Ministry of Entertainment." 

"Comic books?"

Sorry, Senator, my age is showing, I mean graphic novels, of course. 


"Did you ever listen to the two pastry patriarchs hired to replace Mr. Limbaugh after he passed away?"

"Briefly, I gave up because I couldn't tell which one was which, among other reasons, and of course, now that they're both locked up and waiting, and waiting, for trial by the Intersectional Inquisition...

While I never, as I said, considered myself to be one of Mr. Limbaugh's ditto heads, he was, well, think of a real Italian hoagie with everything and not made by Subway, Mr. Hero, or some other corporate sandwich shop. 

As compared to his replacements who... Sorry, their names escape me just now. Think of a pair of boiled ham and American cheese with mayonnaise sandwiches, made with Wonder Bread, and wrapped, tightly, with Saran wrap." 

"Mr. Mehlmar, I must ask you to refrain from outdated and/or obscure cultural references and speak plainly, sir."


"Sorry, Senator. Let me put it this way. I didn't usually find him, or the shows prerecorded 'bits' particularly funny. I couldn't grok how he stayed motivated to keep talking about politics for three hours a day/five days a week, year in and year out, long after he had accumulated FU-level wealth. 

I never understood why fans would go to the trouble of struggling to have their phone calls answered, and then be screened, and then be placed on hold, hoping that their hero might permit them to speak for half a minute,

Before 

cutting them off and using their comment to launch yet another speech by a man who just couldn't seem to stop talking and never got tired of the sound of his own voice."       


"Mr. Mehlmar, you realize that you're under oath, correct?"

"Of course, Senator Stumblebum."

"Well sir, this committee has it on good authority that you have spoken highly of Mr. Limbaugh on more than one occasion," said the Senator, making a show of rustling some of the papers spread out in front of him in an exaggerated fashion.

"Hmmm... That explains why my "cellmate" vanished. I was afraid he had an appointment with a guillotine."


"Do you deny the accusation then?"     

"I do sir, I do. I merely expressed my admiration for the fact that in an age when even rock 'n' roll has been swallowed whole by our corporate masters, who no longer even had/have to pretend to be cool, cool in its vanishing original sense, Mr. Limbaugh was always looking for the line so he could step over it. 

Most importantly, he appeared to be having fun, and didn't give a tinker's damn if he triggered anyone. He was performing his art and shining a light on what he perceived to be the truth."   

"Take this, "columnist," back to his cell, immediately." 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day


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Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page. I post my newest column there on Saturdays and interesting stuff on other days.

Friday, June 25, 2021

Obituaries

 Junkies and babies, and Wuflu, oh my!

Image by b0red from Pixabay


This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — A Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Viewing with a tablet or a monitor is highly recommended for maximum enjoyment.  
Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals dying of nothing." -Red Foxx


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

In theory, the title of this column, Obituariesshould be world-class clickbait. I'll/It'll probably go insanely viral and rack up millions of hits. 

Also, I rendered the word obituaries in bold and used it a second time only 39 (or 40) words in.

{What the h-e-double hockey sticks are you on about now?} 

Well, it depends on whether ya count I'll/It'll as one or two words. 

{Cute. You know what I'm talking about.}

Well, Dana, I have it on good(?) authority that by repeating the title early on and in bold, using a title that "users" might type in that are oblivious to me and my columns existence; repeating it regularly throughout the column (but not too regularly); writing h-e-double hockey sticks instead of hell to indicate that this is a family-friendly column to appeal to my fellow Neoneoconservatives, my "community," — "going viral" is inevitable. 

{What does any of this crap poop have to do with obituaries?}

Nothing. 

I'm merely, one, reminding my fellow H. sapiens that the Earth has been invaded by an army of Algorithmites created in virtual laboratories by the minions of the semi (so far) evil tech oligopoly that's taking over the world. 

Algorithmites, like rust, never sleep. They're always virtually peering over your shoulder to see what you're up to so as to turn you into data for maximum monetization.

And two, pointing out that there's an entire industry devoted to teaching creators of content how to serve said Algorithmites so as to attract "sticky" eyeballs to your work and maybe make a buck — which is how they try to make a buck. You're much more likely to make pennies but it's like the lottery, ya gotta play to win.

Think of it as a public service announcement. I'm all about serving my community.

{On behalf of the community please accept my sincere thanks. Any chance we can talk about obituaries now?}

Why Certainly. 


To a certain segment of my "community," geezers and geezerettes, obituaries are important. For example, I begin my day by consuming a cup of Cafe Bustelo and an amazing amount of information (if I do say so myself) about current events via a highly engineered and continually tweaked system that includes the obituary section of the Hooterville Hornblower. 

My purpose in doing so is twofold. First, to verify that I'm not dead, a clueless ghost sitting in front of a keyboard writing non-existent columns for people who can't see/read them (or me).

Second, to check and see if anyone I know that lives on the periphery of my life have passed away peacefully into eternal rest, and no one told me. Not that I would be likely to go to his/her/their funeral or whatever. I try my best not to do funerals or whatevers. 

As to why... well, that would take a column's worth of words to explain properly. Suffice it to say it has nothing to do with a fear of death. Also, I pre-encourage anyone/everyone not to attend my Celebration of Life if there is one. If there's a funeral, I'll come back and haunt whoever is responsible.


Anyways, reading about people who went to their heavenly home comes with a major downside. Babies, toddlers, and teenagers die too. The announcement that one has is enough to bring tears to the eyes of even cynical, grumpy old cranks and crankettes.

If someone younger than fifty or so dies suddenly from unknown causes under investigation there's a good chance they succumbed to a drug overdose. Those sorts of obituaries are usually short, light on details, and sadly, appear regularly nowadays.  

According to the obituaries, most people don't die, they pass away, which I know from personal experience is not necessarily true, and the exact cause is rarely mentioned. 

Many people, particularly people over the age of roughly 70 or so, pass away peacefully while surrounded by their loving family. Well, I hope that's true. Regardless, I suspect that often the wording (like funerals) is more about the living than the dead.

I'm not entirely sure it's appropriate but I want to know the cause of death. Like when someone falls asleep in the Lord after a quietly courageous battle with Stage 4 lung cancer. Since the Wuflu plague, although rapidly/hopefully is fading but is still with us, this bit of knowledge seems particularly pertinent. 

For example, I'd like mine to be something like: 

It is with a mixture of sadness and rejoicing that our much-loved patriarch has set off on his final road trip to the Great Gig In the Sky. He was instantly vaporized, while traveling as a space tourist, when on the return leg of one of Elon Musk's To the Moon and Back Sightseeing Space Junkets the spaceship mysteriously exploded. 


Addendum: The Great Gig In The Sky
And I am not frightened of dying
Any time will do, I don't mind
Why should I be frightened of dying?
There's no reason for it, you've gotta go sometime
If you can hear this whispering you are dying -Rick Wright
 
Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day


Scroll down to share this column or access previous ones. If you enjoy my work and the fact I don't run adverts or sell things, please consider buying me a coffee via PayPal or plastic.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page. I post my newest column there on Saturdays and interesting stuff on other days.