Christmas In Flyover Country, 2020

 A Mr. Cranky's neighborhood episode 

                                       Image by Nita Knott at pixy.org 

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 become grups 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 via tablet/monitor is highly recommended for maximum enjoyment.

Please Note: If ya click on an Amazon ad, thus opening a portal to Amazon, and buy anything, Lord Jeffrey will toss a few pence in my direction and you won't have to feel guilty about enjoying my work — well, hopefully — for free. Win/Win.  

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Once again, we come to the Holiday Season, a deeply religious time that each of us observes, in his own way, by going to the mall of his choice." -Dave Berry

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

Recently, when I swung open the door of my humble but comfortable chambers seeking relief from a certain telltale pressure men of a certain age are prone to with a frequency unimaginable to their distantly younger selves, I immediately noticed a strong, pleasant, familiar yet momentarily unidentifiable, smell. 

[Huh?]

I had to pee and some of the residents of Casa de Chaos had installed a REAL Christmas tree while I was busy reading, writing, and not doing any arithmetic in my humidity-monitored (I've got a gauge), no bathroom room.

I'm subject to dry skin when one of the oldest, still operating furnaces in Flyoverland is running which leads to excessive scratching and fever dreams if my cheap but effective humidifier isn't running on high.

[Fascinating.]     

We've been living in this large, drafty but mostly comfortable (the landlord doesn't like to fix things unless it becomes unavoidable) house for 13.5 years and have never had a real Christmas tree. 

As to artificial trees, it was discovered that an accidental embarrassment of riches had accumulated in the midst of the piles of kindling stored under the house over the years (our basement) and now the Stickies all have sparsely decorated Christmas trees in their bedrooms.

This serves to remind me that, once again, I've failed to purchase a Festivus Pole, it's probably all for the best. 

The traditional Airing of Grievances and demonstrations of Feats of Strength, while the Wuhan Flu is still ravaging the Republic might not be a good idea. 

I do like that smell though, although it feels like something is missing... and I'm not talking about the Advent calendar, that as usual I also didn't buy, in spite of the fact I loved Advent calendars when I was a kid.

[Do they even still make Advent calendars, grandpa?]

I'm sure they do, they must, right?... Wait a sec', I'll be right back. Unholy cow, how embarrassing. I, an admitted current events junkie, was unaware the making Advent calendars is a veritable industry. 

However, I no longer want one. 

I thought that Alyssa Milano might possibly be the anti-Christ but it turns out that it may be a man/woman/person named Katie Snooks who has apparently made unboxing the latest Love Honey Sex Toy Advent Calendar an annual tradition.  

I went a-googlin' and discovered that the Love Honey people have several competitors so if you're interested you should shop around before making a commitment. I'll be right back, I have to take a shower. 

[Man you're old.]   

I had hoped that there might be more Christmas lights hung in the hood this year for a couple of reasons. Alas, as usual, Christmas lights are few and far between.  

The number of homes that hung orange lights to celebrate Halloween ticked up slightly. A few people had actually started putting up outdoor Christmas decorations and lights prior to Halloween. 

It was probably plague defiance, but still... One house was actually decorated inside and outside by the day after Halloween.

[Have you been peering into windows again?]

That was just a nasty rumor, nothing was ever proven. I refer to the fact there's a fully decorated Christmas tree visible in a picture window.

[Tell us about the lights on display at Casa de Chaos.]

I must confess there aren't any. My daughter and son-in-law are, as usual, working their bums off and understandably lacking in energy and motivation. The firstborn Sticky now lives elsewhere and the rest of the tribe, all things considered, probably shouldn't be trusted on a ladder.  

[Well, what about...]

I'm a poster geezer for arthritis, ain't gonna happen. Did I mention we got a real tree this year? Very cool, but there's something missing... 

I ran into Picasso Man recently. He's still navigating the neighborhood, and our rustic sidewalks (does the phrase Ho Chi Minh trail suggest anything to you?), with a flimsy wheeled walker.

[Ho Chi what?]

Never mind. I complimented him, sincerely, on the full beard he's now sporting. He told me he just hates to shave. I also hate to shave but couldn't grow a respectable beard, or even a mustache, to save my life.

We agreed that Northern winters wouldn't be so bad if they didn't occur every single year. 

Also, that the large, endlessly bark-bark-barking dog that seems to spend most of its time, alone, in a small backyard,

And who was bark-bark-barking the entire time we were talk-talk-talking,

Deserves better masters than the dumpy and depressed looking couple living in the dumpy and depressed looking house with the small backyard. 

[Dogs have masters, cats have staff.]

When I returned home and was greeted by the smell of the real Christmas tree I figured out what was missing, bayberry candles. Does Glade, 99¢ at WallyWorld,  have a bayberry fragrance?

Evergreen and bayberry were what Christmas smelled like when I was a kid. 

Well... except for a couple of years when we had a hideous aluminum Christmas tree that you weren't supposed to hang lights on.

It was lit by a sort of spotlight that featured a spinning, four-color plastic wheel that revolved in front of a 1,000 watt light bulb that filled the house with the smell of plastic just about to melt.  

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Share this column, give me a thumb (up or in my eye), and/or access older columns below. If my work pleases you you can buy me some cheap coffee with PayPal or plastic.

If you do your Amazon shopping by using one of my Amazon ads as a portal to access Amazon, Lord Jeffrey will toss me a few pence if you buy anything.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page.

Cranky don't tweet.

Amazon

                                   Image by Gerd Altmann 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 become grups 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 via tablet/monitor is highly recommended for maximum enjoyment.

Please Note: If ya click on an Amazon ad, thus opening a portal to Amazon, and buy anything, Lord Jeffrey will toss a few pence in my direction and you won't have to feel guilty about enjoying my work — well, hopefully — for free. Win/Win.  

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"I wonder which is more creepy: shopping at Amazon or using Facebook?"

                                                                                       -Harper Reed 

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

[Clearly, this is an issue that needs to be addressed. Our reputation is on the line.]

Oh yeah? And what has led you to that conclusion?  

[All the negative emails and comments we would be getting if we had more readers.]

I'm not sure that makes sense... Regardless, I disagree. Once, inevitably, we have so many readers that I'll need a personal assistant, it won't/wouldn't be a...

In fact, accidentally upsetting my many many readers is the sort of problem I'd like to have.

[You don't think that selling your soul to Lord Jeffrey is a big deal?]

I don't think I sold my soul. I think I'm a cagey but ethical writer and capitalist in search of a fair profit for both me and mine. Permit me to explain. 

This column, what some philistines call a blog, is written and published via some free software called Blogger that is supplied by the Goog. Who enjoys attacking the soulless bas-tarrds that run the Goog — assuming that H. sapiens and not a machine are still in charge — more than I do?

[Bas-tarrds?] 

Pronounce with a French accent, heavily accent the second syllable. Anyways, you have to appreciate the irony involved in attacking the Goog with software supplied by the Goog.

[What's that got to do with Amazon?] 

I could also run the Goog's adverts, they're just as simple to set up. Install a bit of code and the Goog (or Lord Jeffrey) does the rest. This way I get to deny the Goog and myself a bit of revenue. My cup runneth over with smug self-righteousness.

[I repeat, what's that got to do with Amazon? What's that got to do with running Amazon advertisements?]

Having firmly established my ethical bona fides, I shall continue. 

Regardless of whether or not Lord Jeffrey is a modern-day robber baron, as some people believe, not unlike my personal favorite robber baron, Andrew Carnegie, he does a lot of good for a lot of people just by being himself. 

Andrew Carnegie provided thousands of jobs to the people of my hometown, Pittsburgh (with an h), Pennsylvania. More importantly, once he had his FU money he walked away from the game and spent the rest of life giving his money away. 

I know a guy that spent a lot of his childhood reading free books borrowed from his local Carnegie Library and a good deal of his time wandering around the Carnegie Museums of Pittsburgh. Unfortunately, he spent none of his time attending Carnegie Mellon University.          

[Again, what's this got to do with Amazon? Lord Jeffry hasn't retired and isn't giving (much of) his money away.]

As it happens, I know more than one person who happily works for Amazon. I don't know anyone that works for the Goog. Lord Jeffrey has generated a ton of jobs out here in Flyoverland for my fellow Deplorables. 

The Wokies, the Hilliam, the Goog and its minions, Uncle Joe, etcetero? — not so much. 

[Well yeah, but what about the working conditions? Everybody says that...]

Everybody huh? Well, most working stiffs don't enjoy working their ass off, no matter who signs the paychecks. 

However, any working stiff — with minimal skills to bring to the table — that lives in the real world and has real bills to pay and real kids to feed is grateful for steady work at a fair wage determined by the market and not some well-meaning Wokie unaware of the downsides of an economy run by central planners.

Listen, I've got a problem with Lord Jeff, and no shortage of other gazillionaires and their well-compensated minions, who don social justice cloaks while gleefully "disrupting" entire industries for fun and profit.

Is it too much to ask that they devote more of their vaunted energy and brainpower to considering what to do about all the disrupted former employees and disruption destroyed businesses? Not only by them but by the "mostly peaceful protestors" they often support, or have nothing to say about?

The Citizens of the Republic need more than giant container ships stuffed full of stuff made by Emperor Xi's subjects for all of us to survive and thrive. 

That said... 

Given that I crank out one of these at least vaguely clever and amusing little essays weekly and not only don't copyright 'em but encourage the world to pass 'em around and republish them wherever they please, I don't have a problem with pointing out to people that if they do their Amazon shopping by using one of my Amazon ads as a portal to Amazon so they don't have to feel guilty about reading my work for free and not buying me a coffee while simultaneously supporting the small American businesses that operate under the Amazon umbrella as well as the thousands of my fellow Deplorables that work for Amazon — particularly the ones I know personally, some of whom I'm related to, and one of whom resides in my fortified compound, Casa de Chaos.   

Now that's a sentence!

[Hoo-Boy...] 

THIS JUST IN! It was brought to my attention that my Amazon ads were not showing up via whatever medium a particular reader was accessing my column. Lord Jeffry assures me that his minions have made sure they are appearing on both the desktop and mobile editions. You will not see 'em if you subscribed to have them sent to you by email.  

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Share this column, give me a thumb (up or in my eye), and/or access older columns below. If my work pleases you you can buy me some cheap coffee with PayPal or plastic.

If you do your Amazon shopping by using one of my Amazon ads as a portal to access Amazon, Lord Jeffrey will toss me a few pence if you buy anything.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page.

Cranky don't tweet.     

   

Scott Adams

      This is not Scott Adams at work. Image by Tania Van den Berghen 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 become grups or I'm deleted.

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

Please Note: If ya click on an Amazon ad, thus opening a portal to Amazon, and buy anything, Lord Jeffrey will toss a few pence in my direction and you won't have to feel guilty about enjoying my work — well, hopefully — for free. Win/Win.

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"I respectfully decline the invitation to join your hallucination." -Scott Adams

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

The life of Scott Adams the cartoonist, the Dilbert dude, underwent a sea change in 2016 that you might not be aware of. 

Mr. Adam's, fortunately, was already comfortably seated on a relatively modest-sized pile of FU money when his cash flow river was... Well, it wasn't like one of those climate catastrophes you heard about in school wherein some river or other started flowing in the opposite direction.

However, his broad, rapidly flowing river was rapidly reduced to a humble creek when the Twitteratti and the Purple Press came after him with sharpened pitchforks and tiki torches.

In addition to his successful comic strip, Adams made/makes his dough in various ways, such as the sale of (good) books and merchandise. He was a very well-compensated corporate guest speaker. If you're familiar with his comic strip you'll appreciate the heavy-duty irony implicit in the preceding sentence.

Mr. Adams, who's undeniably smarter than the a-ver-age bear, predicted, on his blog, that the Donald would win the presidential election of 2016. That was his story and he stuck to it. Eventually, even the shell-shocked clerisy and pundocracy had to confront the fact most of 'em were wrong. 

Of course, the majority, most of whom never got over the 60s (even if they weren't actually there) immediately began doing what they do. They stepped up to selflessly do everything they could to save the Deplorables from themselves by doubling down on their commitment to turning the USA into a progressive utopia.

"Learn to code, you racist, fentanyl addled Believers and Gun Lovers. We assigned all your carbon generating jobs (and then some) to Chinese slaves. Move on, nothing to see here."

Since the last couple/three paragraphs should actually form the core of a whole other column, I better move on. Sorry, you know how I get. 

Anyways, Mr. Adams went out of his way to point out, repeatedly, that normally he doesn't even vote and that he wasn't endorsing Trump, or working to get him elected.

This didn't stop the Wokies from doing their best to burn him at the virtual stake. Heretics judged guilty by the Intersectional Inquisition must be silenced lest their sins, real or imagined, corrupt (or worse yet, trigger) the souls of the faithful  

Adams is a trained hypnotist and student of how the mind of the average H. sapien actually works as opposed to how he/she/they believe it works, and, how a person armed with this knowledge goes about persuading humans to do anything from buying a given brand of toothpaste to voting for a given politician.

He made it clear that the reason he thought the Donald would win was that he was the most highly-skilled natural-born persuader Adams had ever come across. 

[But he's such a... Well, you recently called Trump a narcissistic a-hole.]

I did indeed, Dana, and I haven't changed my mind. However, to get a handle on what Adams is talking about you need to have read his blog then, and/or watch his video blog on YouTube now, and/or read his books and/or the books of people he recommends.

The art and science of persuasion is a fascinating and complex subject but the point I wish to make with this particular column is twofold. Mr. Adams doesn't need your money and Mr. Adams is genuinely trying to help.

[You sound like a true fanboy.]

Sorta/kinda. However, for the sake of full disclosure, I have to point out that the Dilbert Dude has an exceptionally healthy ego, does tend to ramble in video blog/podcast (Coffee with Scott Adams), and is not as funny as he thinks he is. 

Also, lately, he's become obsessed with politics and his blog has become an extended group chat with his fans and enemies. He speaks, they type, he reacts, he speaks some more, they type some more, he reacts some more...

I miss his written blog wherein he made his points clearly, logically, and succinctly. Nowadays he performs for his "community." According to the experts, I should also build a community to be successful. 

Oh well, ain't gonna happen. The column stands or falls on its own. All power to the introverts! 

"Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard." -Daphne du Maurier     

 

Mr. Adams still publishes Dilbert seven days a week but nowadays also video blogs seven days a week via Periscope/YouTube. 

[As opposed to an old crank that writes a weekly column?]

Keep it up and I'll start taking my meds again. Poof! you're outta here.

I don't always agree with him. He's become an unrepentant supporter of the Donald; I had to take a shower after I recently voted for the Orange one. But he's never hesitated to criticize Trump and he relentlessly pursues the truth down whatever gopher hole it takes him. 

[Gopher hole?]  

Well, everyone's using the phrase rabbit hole nowadays so I figured that...

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Share this column, give me a thumb (up or in my eye), and/or access older columns below. If my work pleases you you can buy me some cheap coffee with PayPal or plastic.

If you do your Amazon shopping by using one of my Amazon ads as a portal to access Amazon, Lord Jeffrey will toss me a few pence if you buy anything.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page.

Cranky don't tweet.

  

      

Wanted: Grownups

                                         Image by Sergio Pavlishko 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 become grups 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 on a decently sized computer monitor recommended for maximum enjoyment.

Note: If ya click on an Amazon ad, thus opening a portal to Amazon, and buy anything, Lord Jeffrey will toss a few pence in my direction and you won't have to feel guilty about enjoying my work — well, hopefully — for free. Win/Win.  

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"My father would take me to the playground, and put me on mood swings"                                                                                                        -Jay London

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

The four stages of life are kid, callowyute, grup, and sexy senior citizen. If you're interested, I define all four categories in my glossary. This week's column is about grups, more commonly called grownups. 

In my glossary, I only explore the etymology of the word grups. I don't say much about what choosing to be a grownup means. Paradoxically, being a world-class grownup includes knowing when to allow one's inner kid, even inner callowyute, to come out and play. 

This is important, but having brownies for breakfast, like much sinning, is no longer sinful, or even much fun, once it becomes normal. A grup knows that. Excessive sinning is as boring, and as potentially self-destructive, as excessive piety. 

During the course of my kid and (very early) callowyute stages, life was less complicated than nowadays. Rulebooks ruled. 

By the time I hit peak callowyutishness the social fabric was fading and fraying faster than my favorite pair of bell-bottom jeans.

However, I had a firm foundation to stand on that was built when I was a kid. Also, the people who had built that foundation were not about to go down without a fight just because a significant cohort of Boomers made tossing the tot out with the Jacuzzi water their raison d'etre.

Push back from grups keeps the playground from demonstrating what would've happened if the flies of The Lord of the Flies not only hadn't been rescued but had been joined by a swarm of shipwrecked females.  

Dumb luck, no risk of being drafted to fight in various, misguided "limited wars" since Vietnam, recreational pharmaceuticals, as well as unprecedented prosperity and technical advances enabled many Boomers to enjoy an extended adolescence (callowyutence) including me, your semi-humble correspondent.  

Many of us grew up, eventually. But many of us are still at it to one degree or another. And many of us refuse to gracefully exit the stage and give the kids a chance — the Donald and Uncle Joe (78!) come immediately to mind — while we either spend their inheritance and/or continue to run up hooge bills they will eventually have to pay. 

A quick bit of googlin' revealed that as of early 2019 The Fedrl Gummit's unfunded liabilities totaled roughly $122,000,000,000,000. State and local unfulfillable promises adds another $5,000,000,000,000.

Apropos of nothing much, I once knew a little girl named Trillion.   

Previously, callowyutence normally ended relatively early for most due to the manifestation of random negative life events like recessions, depressions, and wars. 

Also — as a result of thousands of years of trial and error — there were all sorts of H. sapiens that thought that getting a job and then getting married and then reproducing and then trying to stay married sounded like the way to go.

BIG BUT, In 1965 the callowyutes began pushing back against the grups and started cultivating callowyutence as a lifestyle choice.

We meant well, we really did.  

In our defense, all sorts of things did need to change. Female H. sapiens needed to be liberated to choose what sort of grup they wish to be. Wife and mother, Supreme Court Justice, both, or something else.

Blacks were long overdue for the Civil Rights Act of '64 and the Voting Rights Act of '65... but that was primarily a pre-Boomer accomplishment. However, Boomers did do a lot of marching, protesting, and singing in support of various minority groups and causes. 

When our gay friends started opening closet doors from the inside most of us didn't freak out. It's slowly dawning on society that it's likely that some people, including the Ls, the Bs, the Ts, and the plusses may just be born that way, not manufactured.  

Now, given the limited impact of the Great Recession of 2008 on the Boomers, its outsized impact on the three succeeding generations, and the plague we're currently battling, one would hope common sense and compromise would make a comeback in the Republic.  

However...

The alleged death of God, however conceived; the rise in popularity of us v. them identity politics; the seemingly indefatigable toxic Wokies; the notion that there's no such thing as truth or human nature, just convenient constructs built on the fly and mandated by the Pasty Patriarchs; the...

[Ahem.]

Thanks, Dana. Fellow grups and sexy senior citizens (you know who you are) please feel free to add to my list or make one of your own. The widely forecast blue wave didn't happen and it would appear that no one needs to fear being dragged in front of a Truth and Reconciliation Tribunal.

[What's that got to do with...]

Choosing to be the grup in the room? While I'm not advocating a return to 1950s America I am advocating a personal search for truth and reconciliation. The playground's no fun when it's run like the Island of Lost Boys.

[Another Island? A psychologist might say...] 

All I'm saying is that a philosophy of life built around If It Feels Good Do It and May the Biggest Victim Win won't work/isn't working and ain't going to end well. 

Any grownup knows that. 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Share this column, give me a thumb (up or in my eye), and access older columns below. If my work pleases you you can buy me some cheap coffee with PayPal or plastic.

If you do your Amazon shopping by using one of my Amazon ads as a portal to access Amazon, Lord Bezos will toss me a few pence if you buy anything.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page.

Cranky don't tweet.

  

  

  

Your Tax Dollars At Work

                                               Image by Liselotte Brunner 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 become grups 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 on a decently sized computer monitor recommended for maximum enjoyment.

Note: If ya click on an Amazon ad, thus opening a portal to Amazon, and buy anything, Lord Bezos will toss me a few pence in my direction and you won't have to feel guilty about enjoying my work — well, hopefully — for free. Win/Win.

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Collecting more taxes than is absolutely necessary is legalized robbery." 

                                                                                          -Calvin Coolidge 

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

According to Merriam-Webster...

Boondoggle: a wasteful or impractical project or activity often involving graft. 

California's train to nowhere — full disclosure, the preceding and following italicized phrases have been used by all sorts of writers in the know whose articles have preceded this one — is the very definition of a boondoggle.  

The nation that built a transcontinental railroad (6 years) and landed a man (twelve of 'em in fact) on the moon (8 years) can't build a railroad from here to there in California.

What follows is the Crank's Digest version of the story. The full story would require a column of at least 10,000 words. I'm a rabid reader and current events freak but even I wouldn't be interested in reading such a column, much less writing one. 

I suspect the only thing it would be good for is as a sleep aid. 

[Wait-wait-wait. Why are you writing about the train to nowhere at all? Is that still a thing? If I remember correctly Governor Moonbeam was the one that got the ball, if not an actual train rolling, back in, lemme think, musta been...]

It's still a thing. Apparently, it's harder to kill than Covid in a New York nursing home. 

Jerry Brown, who ran California for two consecutive terms, twice, and an extremely fortunate man in that he was romantically linked to Linda Ronstadt back in the day — ironically considered to be a fiscal conservative at the time — signed legislation authorizing the money to study building a high-speed rail system in the Sunshine State in 1982. 

California's been trying to build a local railroad for 38 years. 

They've been at it for so long there's a Wikipedia entry entitled History of California High-Speed Rail. It's a very long entry. 

[You're using the word entitled incorrectly, it should be titled. I would've thought that...]

I'm fully aware of that but I'm invoking my poetic license. If I were king and/or the Earth was less hostile to gentlepersons...

[Gimme a break.]  

If the Peoples Republic of California should actually manage to complete the latest drastically dumb downed-version of The Never-Ending Public Works Project (currently scheduled for 2029) I propose it should be called the Jerry Brown Sorta/Kinda High-Speed Railroad.

Here's hoping Mr. Brown, who would be 91 years old, is still around and gets to pound in the last (gold foil-wrapped) spike at the opening ceremony — assuming he could lift a sledgehammer). 

[Perhaps they could use a Nerf-spike and a Nerfhammer. Um, listen, you've been at this for a while now, and, well, what happened to a Cranky's Digest version of this dispiriting tale of American wussification.]

Having just reread the Wikipedia entry referenced above and reviewed my other exhaustive research I'm so dispirited I've decided to wrap this baby up and inventory the liquor cabinet. 

[You don't have a liquor cabinet...]

Yes, but I do have a poetic license, remember?

It depends on who you ask but as best as I can tell The Fedrl Gummit and the gummit of California have, so far, spent more than $6,000,000,000. 

Former President Obama pledged to contribute $3,500,000,000 of other people's money as part of his efforts to blunt the effects of the Great Recession, but the Donald issued a stop payment order on the last billion or so and has asked for a 2.5 billion refund given that no track has actually been laid.

 

California's legislature has gone to war with the state gummit agency that refuses to stop spending other people's money on a railroad that has laid no track. 

While there's no use crying over spent money, I'd like to propose that The Fedrl Gummit hold a lottery and give away the billion bucks. Print the name of each state on a ping-pong ball, put 'em all in a big red, white, and blue sack and have Miss Ms. America...

[Do we still have a Miss Ms. America?] 

And have him/her/them reach in and pull out a winner. The winning state will divvy up the money equally among its citizens in lieu of the stimulus checks that we've been mentally spending for months now that have yet to leave the Swamp.

"The checks are in the mail! Or at least they will be if Orange Hitler stops screwing around and gets out of my our way." Nancy Pelosi 

[Fake news! You made that up!]

Yeah, but it's still true.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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In The Event of My Death

                                                 Image by Gerd Altmann 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 become grups or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Millions long for Immortality who don't what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. -Susan Ertz

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

My late wife, Ronbo, was one of those odd sorts of people that in spite of the fact that logic, reason, and (shudder) "lived experience" clearly demonstrate that the glass is half empty, consistently maintained that it was half full. 

"Well, that sucks, but look on the bright side..."

"What if there is no bright side" was my standard response. 

"There's always a bright side, you just have to look for it."

Although she never succeeded in converting me to a Half Fuller we did agree on a compromise position: it could always be worse. While I've made it clear that I wish to be cremated and that I want 99% of my ashes used as fertilizer or compost I've occasionally reconsidered.

It would be extremely cool to have a modest headstone that said:

                                            Marcus Mehlmar

                                         (Mark E. Mehlmauer)

                                      8/26/53 - 8/28/2054

                                    

                                     It Could Have Been Worse

Ronbo, a.k.a. Ronnie (not another nickname, she was named after her uncle Ronnie), who's currently residing in an urn in my living room although she's supposed to be residing in Lake Erie (sorry, Ronbo, we'll get to it...) could be next to me. 

                                          Ronnie L. Mehlmauer

                                          1/6/52 - 1/8/2006

                                           This was only a test

[(Shudder)? Lived experience? 99% of your ashes? This was only a test?]

Thanks for asking, my hallucinatory but charming literary device. Permit me to explain.

The phrase lived experience, as some of our society's more delicate flowers nowadays would put it, triggers me. 

While my fellow Deplorables and I were preoccupied with surviving and assisting our progeny in doing the same, the Wokies were spreading the intellectual virus that is the cult of Wokism on America's college campuses. 

It spread remarkably rapidly. Primary and high schools, the media, Hollywood, and HR departments were devastated by this pernicious pandemic.

The formerly harmless phrase lived experience has been weaponized. It now means, don't confuse me with facts, my mind's already made up. That is to say, debate/reason/logic/etceteric are tools the Pasty Patriarchy employs to dominate and suppress... well, everyone.

"I don't care what reactionary right-wingers say, I'm a victim, and penis or not, my lived experience is that in my heart of hearts I'm a woman, so I should be allowed to compete against biologically female athletes."

[Feel better now?]  

In fact, I do.  

As to wanting 99% of my ashes used for compost or fertilizer, that's simply my way of saying thanks to the planet I lived on/kept me fed for 101 years. "Thanks for all the food and beautiful flora. Please recycle me to help maintain the system now that I'm gone."

[Okay, but what about the other 1%?]

Well, actually, I'm referring to what would amount to a mere pinch of the former me. I would like said pinch to be added to the contents of a large joint and passed around and smoked by whoever would care to take a hit on me. 

Inhaling is strongly encouraged but merely going through the motions by those who can't or won't is acceptable. 

[Why on Earth do you...]

Potheads, current and former ones like myself, will understand. Those with addiction issues (be honest, you know who you are...) are encouraged to raise the joint like they're making a toast, say something nice (but mean is okay too, as long as it's funny), and then pass it on. 

[But why...]           

Because for a minute or two, and although I regret it (Well... mostly. Me, Fred I., Ron P., John H., and especially Alexsandra B., did have a helluva lotta fun), weed was quite important to me at one time. 

This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is only a test.

Ronnie Lee — Six, then Oesch, and finally, Mehlmauer — was a preemie who was given oxygen to help her breathe because of underdeveloped lungs. Too much oxygen is as harmful as not enough for preemies and Ronnie was given too much.

Thus began a lifetime of slowly but steadily ever-worsening health problems. The road to hell can be accidentally paved with good intentions.    

In spite of the fact she wasn't supposed to live past the age of __ (the year kept shifting as she kept getting older in spite of the judgments of experts) she lived for 54 years and two days.  

In spite of the fact she was told she couldn't have any kids she had one anyway and thus the Stickies came to be.

When she had a near-death experience she was brought up short of where the light seemed to be taking her and a voice told her it wasn't her time. "Go back, love God, and help others." She took her marching orders literally as many can attest. 

For obvious reasons, we probably talked about death more than most couples. Because she was who she was Ronbo thought that This Was Only a Test was an appropriate epitaph.

[The title of this column would seem to indicate this was supposed to have been about...] 

They don't call me the garrulous geezer for nothin'. Besides, didn't you read my tombstone? I'm not going to die till 2054 so what's the hurry?

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Share this column or give me a thumb (up or in my eye) below. If my work pleases you you can buy me some cheap coffee with PayPal or plastic.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page.

Cranky don't tweet.