Happy 50th birthday, friend Todd!

Friend Todd ventured up here to God's refreshingly cool country from wicked hot Texas for the Labor Day weekend.  Some of you razor-sharp readers may remember reading about our fishing tournament plans.  The rest of you can refresh your memory by checking out my "Friend Todd to the rescue!!!" post from 8/17/10.


It just so happened that friend Todd celebrated his 50th birthday while here.  I'm happy and relieved to say that our plans for his birthday present worked out perfectly...he won the tournament!


After having quickly caught several fish myself, I became concerned that I wouldn't be able to suppress my tenacious fishing prowess.  Therefore, I fished without a hook for the remainder of the day (this was easy for me to hide as I was fishing from the shore whilst first wife Renee and friend Todd fished from the boat.).  Even so, I narrowly averted catching numerous additional fish.


First wife Renee, on the other hand, had a much more difficult time pulling it off (given that she was within sight of friend Todd's watchful eye throughout the entire tournament).  Late in the tournament, first wife Renee was neck and neck (fin and fin?) with friend Todd.  Thank goodness there was a can of insect repellent on the boat which first and foxy (in both senses of the terms) wife Renee was able to start surreptitiously using to drench her bait and hook.  The trick worked and friend Todd eked out a win by just one fish!


I would have included some photos of friend Todd's catches, but the camera we were using doesn't have a macro (extreme close-up) feature so unfortunately, you really can't quite see any of his fish in the pictures.  Although, one photo amusingly shows first wife Renee furiously spraying her hook in the background while friend Todd was busy posing for the camera.  We had to go to significant measures to prevent him from seeing that one.


Oh, one final request...friend Todd is totally oblivious to all of this so please don't mention it to him.  Let's just let him enjoy his ill-gotten booty (or is it ill-booten gotty?).


Flint

What advertising genius though this up?!?!

Sorry again folks...another busy week for me this week so I didn't have the time to put together any personal words of olio for you.  However, real quickly, here is a link to something that cracked me up:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_upshot/20100903/od_yblog_upshot/great-moments-in-collegiate-marketing-drake-universitys-d-campaign

Get the point?

Sorry blogees, it's been a busy week and I've neglected you.  Here's a little olio that will hopefully tide you over for the weekend.

These are some photos I received in an email today which show some incredible craftsmanship.  I assume they aren't the result of internet fakery, but I could be wrong (I've been wrong many times in the past on this subject...if only those people would use their talents for good instead of evil!).  If the photos aren't real, then I guess the craftsmanship we'll all laud is that of the photo faker (don't try saying that really fast 10 times).

This is my personal favorite.

The photo below is the one remaining one from the email.  Note how it proves without question that the handywork above wasn't faked (grin).

Or maybe the photos are indeed real/untouched, but the sculptures aren't small...maybe they are 6' tall.  In which case, I'm not impressed at all...anybody could do that.

Now, admit it, you tried saying "photo faker" 10 times really fast, didn't you?!?!  I'm glad I didn't tell you not to jump off a cliff.

See you on the other side of the weekend.

Flint

We don't need no steenkin' badges!

Sorry Mom, I may have just aided and abetted a criminal.

BTW (which is texting-ese for "by the way"), is a feller supposed to capitalize the word "mom" when he uses it in this context?  I can never keep that straight.  Thankfully, our fanatically tolerant society won't castigate me if I did it wrong (just as nobody these days is vilified for pronouncing "vs." as "verse").

While I'm on that subject, I wonder what our ever-changing English language will look like after the texting generation has inherited the reins of our nation.  im sure u no wot im talkin bout...the way txters save keystrokes @  evry chance 2 lessen the pain of typing on those fiendishly small keypads.  but i digress...

Keypads will to continue to get sadistically smaller

Anyway, this crime story starts a while back when I backed my utility trailer tire over the blade of an ax.  It goes without saying (but I'm saying it anyway) that the ax won...the tire was mortally wounded.  The other trailer tire turned away in revulsion as it couldn't bear the graphic sight of tire air violently spewing in all directions.

A healthy and happy trailer tire

So I started looking around for a cheap replacement tire (since I knew that my other trailer tire couldn't live alone and that it wouldn't be picky about a new mate...yes, it is trailer trash...pun intended...groan).

Silly me.  I should have recalled what I had learned in Economics 101: the equilibrium price of an item is found at the intersection of the supply and demand curves.  My economics-savvy readers will easily recognize this principal in its equation form:

For the rest of you who aren't familiar with this equation (or just don't know what "savvy" means), the basic concept is that the price of an item will be high when demand for it is high and its availability (supply) is low.

A simple equilibrium price graph

Take, for example, oh let's see...how about the case of trailer tires?  They are used prevalently and extensively throughout our solar system, they are frail and faint-of-heart (experiencing palpitations at the mere sight of an ax), and only 11 are produced annually (solar system-wide).

Savvy?  Oh, sorry...got it?  Yes, the price of a new trailer tire rivals that of the space shuttle (back when space shuttles were in high demand...not now, when they can be seen up on blocks in the back yard of just about every other house in Mississippi).

A space shuttle (in its heyday)

Luckily, one of the (surprisingly friendly) tire dealer guys gave me the suggestion of looking on craigslist.com to see if anybody had used trailer tires for sale in our area.  For those of you who don't know about craigslist.com, you're missing out.  It's like a nationwide garage sale at your fingertips.

So I went home and got right on craigslist.com (no, I'm not getting paid for every reference to craigslist.com) and, sure enough, I found on craigslist.com a place here in town that carries all kinds of used tires (including the specific size I needed).

Earlier this morning I drove over to the place.  From the outside, it looked like a fine, upstanding, and  normal place of business.  However, I got a totally different feeling after I went in.  Inside there were stacks and stacks (and stacks) of all sorts of tires and wheels and tires on wheels.  There were also several very filthy workers amongst the tires (which is typical in a tire shop since tires give off an inky black substance at the mere sight of a tire iron or an ax).

Used tires stacked in sort of a herringbone pattern
(or is it tweed...who knows...and, for that matter, who cares?)

None of these guys were speaking in English.  In fact, I think only one of them spoke any English at all and I use the term "English" very loosely.  I think he may have only known English numbers (so that he could interpret the magic/secret numeric codes that tire manufacturers use to label their tires...u no, sort of like txters...e.g., P185/35¿/√R14/eieio@35 psi).

The English-number speaking guy came over to me and gave me the universally known "raising of the eyebrows and throwing back of the head" gesture (thus either asking me what I wanted or telling me to swing away at the next pitch).  I assumed he just wanted to know what I wanted (since we were in no situation where swinging away would do any good whatsoever).  So I told him the magic/secret code I had found on the side of my dead trailer tire and handed the tire/wheel off to him.  He then went off looking through the stacks of trembling tires.  After a minute or so, he popped his head up holding a tire and I gave him the universally known "thumbs up" signal and went to sit down on the dilapidated, tire-ink covered couch in the corner.

Typical tire shop signalling options

To give credit where credit is due, I guess the guy actually knew a little more than just English numbers, since a few minutes later he brought the tire and wheel over to me, pointed to the whitewall stripe, and asked "in out?".  I told him "in" and he went off on his way again handing the tire and wheel off to one of his apparent minions to take care of.

While sitting there waiting, a woman drove up in a car on which three of her four tires/wheels were the little toy-like spare tires (sometimes referred to as "donuts"....mmmm...donuts...yum, but I digress...).  The English-number (and "in" and "out") speaking guy went over to her to discuss the situation.  I didn't see nor hear what transpired, but the end result was that he replaced one of the "donuts" on her car with another used "donut", put the original "donut" in her trunk, and collected some cash from her.  I don't really have a purpose of telling you this part of the story except that it all seemed exceptionally odd.

A "donut"

Okay, so when the "tire air" transplant operation was over, he brought the donee tire over to me mounted on my old familiar wheel and said "thirty".  I guess his knowledge of English numbers also came in handy when telling people how much they owed him.  I handed over $30 to him, grabbed my reanimated tire, and headed off.

On the way home, I started thinking about the whole "sitchee-ay-shun" and it started smelling a little (as they say) "fishy".  The transaction was devoid of any paperwork (e,g. a receipt), involved only cash, and I hadn't paid any sales tax (that I knew of).  I'm now suspicious of the legality of the place.  I must admit that I had probably been gullible and naive about it.  However in my defense, the place wasn't off in some back alley...it was prominently positioned on one of the major streets in town and had all sorts of signage making it look totally legitimate (at least in my country-bumpkin eyes).

I have the feeling now that if they hadn't had the specific tire size I needed, the guy would have (through various body gestures) told me to come back tomorrow morning (thus allowing his minions to perform the appropriate "midnight requisition" to restock his inventory).  This would have the side effect of someone else then needing to come to his shop to look for a cheap tire/wheel replacement and starting the vicious cycle all over again. Seems like a very lucrative and recession-resistant business model (until the cops show up and start asking questions).

In hindsight, this morning's experience now reminds me of a scene from a great old/classic movie..."The Treasure of the Sierra Madre".  Once again, if you haven't seen this movie, you need to.  Aside from a whole bunch of other enjoyable attributes, Walter Huston's performance is fantastic and earned him a well-deserved Oscar.

Walter Huston maniacally dancing a jig

The scene of which I am reminded involves three gold prospectors encountering some hostile bandits posing as the Mexican Federal police...a.k.a. the Federales (rhymes with tamales...well, not exactly, but close enough).  When one of the prospectors (Humphrey Bogart as Fred C. Dobbs...what a great character name), asks to see their badges, the English-speaking lead bandit (played by Alfonso Bedoya) says "We don't need no steenking badges!".

Alfonso Bedoya delivering his career-making infamous line

Well, everybody THINKS they remember him saying that, but (according to several irreproachable "wikis") he actually said: "Badges? We ain't got no badges. We don't need no badges. I don't have to show you any stinking badges!".  

Since, in the movie, that line sparked off a huge gunfight, it makes me glad that I didn't ask to see any credentials at the tire shop.

Welcome to middle America, 2010.

Flint

Pens...the new gold standard?

I recently noticed what looks to be yet another change in the U.S. monetary policy (and by "yet another", I mean the first one I have ever noticed).

For those of you in the intellectual dark about the U.S. monetary policy (a category into which I fell until just a few minutes ago when I looked it up on one of those "wiki" thingies on the internet), the only thing you need to know for the purposes of reading this post is that our U.S. currency used to correlate to specific amounts of gold and now it correlates to specific amounts of "thin air" (not to be confused with specific amounts of "fat air"...to which, coincidentally, our money also now correlates).  I can't argue with the information from the  "wiki" since, in the internet caste system, a person who writes a "wiki" easily trumps a person who just writes a "blog".

Some of my pocket change

For example, in theory (a very small town near Chicken Lips, Wyoming), at one time you could have exchanged a one dollar bill for an actual piece of gold.  However, now you can only exchange a one dollar bill for another (equally worthless) one dollar bill (or a collection of even more worthless coins amounting to one dollar).  Which reminds me of the old Saturday Night Live "Change Bank" commercial parody (http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/first-citywide-change-bank/229045/)...definitely worth watching or re-watching.  But I digress...

Anyway, according to the "wiki" I was reading, a country's monetary policy is either based on the "gold standard" or "fiat money".  Now, I kid you not, the "wiki" went on to define "fiat money" as "money that is intrinsically useless; is used only as a medium of exchange".  This definition makes it quite obvious that the author of that "wiki" has gone shopping for groceries recently.  There are several more perfectly good jokes you could make about "fiat money" (e.g., relating it somehow to the Fiat car company), but I'll let you intelligent readers think up those yourselves.

A Fiat

For some reason (which I'm too lazy to go research), in 1972 President Richard Milhous Nixon single-handedly (and/or, given his reputation as "tricky Dick", possibly under-handedly) changed the U.S. monetary policy from the "gold standard" to "fiat money".  Apparently the events occurring in the timeframe which immediately followed this decision is called "Nixon Shock".  Once again, there are plenty of good jokes to be harvested out of that and I'll let y'all do the harvesting.

Nixon and Ford contemplating the potential fallout of removing us from the gold standard

So by this point, you are (or should be) asking yourself "what in the world does all this fiscal mumbo-jumbo have to do with the title of today's post?".  Great question (even if I say so myself)!  Here's the connection...I think there is some sort of conspiracy going on in which pens (ballpoint, felt tip, rollerball, fountain, et al) are being gathered in droves for monetary purposes (potentially becoming the basis for a new U.S. monetary policy)!

Think about it!  Haven't you noticed that, wherever you go, pens are either missing, chained down, or heavily festooned with some absurdly large plastic flower (theoretically acting as a deterrent to someone taking it for fear they might be seen with it)?

Pen festooning step 1

Pen festooning step 2

The final product...a properly festooned pen ready for public use

I've even seen some pen theft prevention devices that rival the diabolical Rube Goldberg contraptions commonly attached to gas station restroom keys (e.g., wooden bars, tire irons, vending machines, etc).

Exhibit "A" - a cleverly protected gas station restroom key

Exhibit "B" - a devilishly protected gas station restroom key

Exhibit "C" - a ludicrously protected gas station restroom key

I can't say for certain whether these pens are being procured by some rogue splinter group of a U.S. government agency or are getting pinched by the public in order to try to offset the devaluation (aka the "Nixon Shock") both in their physical money as well as in the little ones and zeroes which make up their digital balances at financial institutions.

Regardless (not to be confused with "irregardless", which isn't even a proper word, but is still widely used by those who also pronounce "vs." as "verse" and/or actually know what a "wiki" is), I am mortgaging our house and buying up every pen I can find (and maybe, just maybe, taking a few that aren't chained down or properly festooned).

Come to think of it, I'd better keep my eye open for gas station restroom keys too (they might just turn out to be the new silver standard).

Flint

Yeah, but it's a WET heat.

Here in God's country we're still reeling from sweltering weather last week.  Pertinent comics and photos continue to bombard my email accounts.  Here are the cream of the crop (in my not-so-humble opinion):

However, the high here yesterday was only 73 (yes, in Fahrenheit)...na, na, na, na, na (to those not living here in God's country)!!!

Flint

Friend Todd to the rescue!!!

You'd think that I'd know better by now than to try to use this old body to do any physical labor.  I guess it's time for me to just kick back in the recliner on the weekends.  My hand has gone all wonky on me again (being both numb and painful at the same time...how is that even possible?!?!).

Just as I was wondering how I could type up a post for today, friend Todd unwittingly came to the rescue.  Yesterday he sent me the following video via snail mail and I think it is definitely blog-worthy (especially with me having a bum hand).

One caveat in closing...objects hooked on the fishing lines of Texans appear preposterously larger in videos than in real life.  I remember friend Todd once catching a so-called "fish" that wasn't big enough to use as bait (most aquarium fish were bigger).

Flint

FOLLOW UP ON LAST WEEK'S CAPTION CONTEST! (to be spoken just like Cash Cab's Ben Bailey when he says "Red Light Challenge!")

Hmmm...I really got caught off guard on this one.  Apparently virtually all of my vast readership have lost the use of their hands/fingers in various freak accidents (e.g., getting caught during a fast moving storm while they were in the "death zone" portion of their ascent on Mount Everest).  My apologies to all for making the insensitive assumption that y'all could type.

My readership (prior to losing the use of their hands on that fateful ascent)

It reminds me of a story my mom used to read to me (most recently, last week).  It was called "The Little Red Hen".  If you have never read/heard the story, let me include it here for your reading pleasure (relax, there is no typing required on your part).

Once upon a time, a little red hen lived in a small cottage. She

worked hard to keep her family fed. 

One day, when the little red hen

was out walking with her friends, the goose, the cat, and the pig, she

found a few grains of wheat.

“Who will help me plant this wheat?” asked the little red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

Time went by and the wheat grew, but so did the weeds.

“Who will help me pull the weeds?” asked the little red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself”, said the little red hen. And she did.

All summer the wheat grew taller and taller. It turned from brown

to golden amber. And, at last, it was time to harvest the wheat.

“Who will help me harvest the wheat?” asked the little red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

At last, the wheat was harvested and put into a large sack, ready

to be taken to the mill to be ground into flour.

“Who will help me take the wheat to the mill?” asked the little

red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

The next day came and the little red hen was hungry.

“Who will help me bake this flour into bread?” asked the little

red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

At last, the bread was baked and the little red hen called to her

friends once more.

“Who will help me eat this bread?” asked the little red hen.

“I will,” said the goose.

“I will,” said the cat.

“I will,” said the pig.

“Oh, no you won’t!” said the little red hen. “I found the wheat, I

planted it, I weeded it, and when it was time to harvest it, I did

that too. I took it to the mill to be ground into flour and at last, I

baked it into bread.

“Now,” said the little red hen, “I’m going to eat it with my

family.” And she did.

In light of that, let me now announce the winner of last week's caption contest...wonderful me!  However, I need to give a shout out to my wife, my daughter, and my mom (which may be my entire readership for all I know) to thank them for pushing past the typing pain to respond (either with a caption idea or just to say they couldn't think of a good caption).  So just like the little red hen, I decided that I'm going to enjoy my caption contest winnings with my family.  And I did.

Silence...I keel you!!!

Flint


P.S. On your next Everest summit attempt, please be more careful!

P.P.S. Note to self...don't make a habit of insulting your readers or you will end up just talking to yourself (sort of like you're doing right now).

Don't tase me doc!

I recently injured myself.  And by "injured", I mean I used my body to actually do physical labor.  As a result, parts of my writing hand are now chronically numb (and my other hand is a bit "iffy" also).  While that condition would be fine for my teeth (thus saving hundreds on lidocaine at the dentist), it doesn't work well for someone who basically just sits and types for a living.

So I scheduled an appointment to see my doctor.  He (sort of like an A-list celeb) has an entourage of "peeps" to protect him from actually seeing his patients.  His first line of defense is the crabby and rude telephone lady (who he apparently hired specifically for her world-class crabbiness and rudeness).

Once I can get past her and show up for my appointment, the next rampart I must hurdle takes the form of the crabby and rude receptionist (who I think just barely lost out on the crabby and rude telephone lady job and is now, as a result, exceptionally more crabby and rude).  Her motto seems to be "don't diagnose/prescribe/heal/help them until you see the whites of their insurance card (and the greens of their co-pay)!".

The truly humiliating element of these exchanges (with the telephone lady, the receptionist, et al) is that, to try to avoid rousing their inner beast, I find myself putting on a fake exceedingly happy demeanor (it is interesting that, by coincidence, the root of that word is "demean").  It is the equivalent of falling prostrate in front of them, kissing their feet, and shamelessly groveling just out of fear of hearing the words "off with his head!".  But I digress...

My doctor's office

Anyway, when I successfully made it inside of Fort Knox for my hand problem, my doctor told me that I needed to have a "painful" test performed.  Now, since doctors are prohibited by professional oath to admit anything is painful, this scared me (especially since there was apparently no better name/description for the test and since I am severely allergic to pain).  As the world started spinning around me (but before my face slammed against the tissue paper on the examining table), I distinctly recall hearing words like "needles", "electrical shocks", "Chinese water torture", and "bamboo under the fingernails".

After he brought me to, all I could picture were scenes from "The Right Stuff" where they do various strange medical tests on the Project Mercury astronauts (BTW, if you haven't seen this movie, you ought to).  The one scene in particular that kept flashing before my eyes is where they jab a big needle (the size of a McDonald's drink straw) in the arm of Scott Glenn (ironically portraying Alan Shepard), hook it up to a generator, and turn on the electricity.  This causes his hand to spasm and convulse wildly.  When he gets up to leave, he has to use his other hand/arm to pick up his tested arm (which looks like Harry Potter's arm after Gilderoy Lockhart removed the bones from it instead of mending them).

An astronaut medical testing scene from "The Right Stuff"

Comparative size of McDonald's straws

Harry Potter's boneless arm

Needless to say, when I showed up for the (scientifically and appropiately named) "painful" test at the hospital, I was very nervous.  However, it turned out that I had blown all of my "electrical needle" fears completely out of proportion.  Unfortunately, there were other fears which I had totally neglected since my doctor hadn't warned me about the "taser" portion of the test.

During this part, the person administrating the test (I don't know his name, but I think "Igor" will suffice for the purposes of this post) used a taser to shock me at several places along my arm, wrist, and hand.  The taser was connected by wires to some sort of monitor so that Igor could determine the places that were most sensitive to the shocks (thus maximizing his enjoyment).

Ladies and Gentlemen, does this look like modern medical science?!?!
Why couldn't we have just stuck with the leeches?
They seem like nice enough little things (especially by comparison).

However, I am proud to say that I survived the test.  Amazingly, the test itself miraculously cured all of the feelings of numbness and pain in my other arm (basically 'cuz there is no way I'm ever going to suffer through that test again).

After receiving the results, my doctor told me that I have Carpal Tunnel syndrome.  He then said that he knew that was the case even before prescribing the test, but that the insurance company would require the "painful" test be completed before they would allow treatment.  Yet another reason to hate insurance companies.  I'd like to see Igor have a field day at their office.

So, now it appears that I will require surgery to address the problem.  However, the hand surgeon, to which I was referred, wants me to try 30 days of an anti-inflammatory drug first to see if that might relieve my symptoms.  Why couldn't I at least have gotten to try that before the "painful" test?!?!  It seems like the order of events got slightly out of whack somewhere along the way.

I'm thinking/hoping the surgery won't be as bad as the test that I've already endured.  However, I have read some articles on the internet (which is always a bad choice when looking for reassurance regarding anything of a medical nature) that say the surgery is often performed with just a local anesthetic (possibly to sate the sadists at the insurance company yet again)!  What day and age are we living in here folks?!?!  Why not just pour some whiskey down my throat and give me a bullet to bite on?!?!  Surely the findings of Albert Einstein (and/or the other geniuses of our time) can be applied to the alleviation of medical pain and terror!  C'mon people, something is wrong here...our priorities are all screwed up.

My fear-o-meter is once again pegged.

Old age really does suck (and I'm only in the early onset of the disease).

Flint