I'm having trouble letting go of Daylight Saving Time. I can't help clinging to those long summer evenings that last until almost 9 at night. And who in their right mind could blame me.
The truth is, I don't like falling back, I like springing ahead. In fact, given the power, I would dump Standard Time and stick with Daylight Saving Time all year long. Don't just shrug your shoulders, think about it!
Our fall replacement, Standard Time, tries to justify itself by giving you one more hour of light in the morning. Big whoop!
According to my biased research, Ben Franklin introduced Daylight Saving Time way back in 1784. Now you have to admit, Ben had a lot of good ideas. This particular one floated around until World War 2, when Congress finally figured out that a fuel shortage could be offset by delaying darkness and adding another hour of natural light.
During the early rounds of negotiation, Congress argued that losing that hour of morning light would make it harder for people to wake up. Old Ben countered that we could ring church bells early every morning. And if that didn't work, we could fire off some cannons.
My additional research revealed that Daylight Saving Time is a big saver of energy – about 10,000 barrels of oil a day. Now I did look this up on the internet so it could be off by a few thousand barrels. But even so, I think a solid case is being built here.
Standard Time, also an act of Congress, was unleashed on this country in 1917 when we were too busy fighting the Germans to realize what was going on. Besides, it was no big deal when alarm clocks and pocket watches were all we had to mess with.
But today we've got all kinds of timepieces: wrist watches, car clocks, answering machines, coffee makers, oven timers, microwaves, DVD'S. And just be glad you're not the manager of a store like Tourneau Corner or Swatch Watches.
As for that extra hour of sleep, you can kiss that goodbye when you start changing 15 or 20 timing devices, depending on how techie you are.
It's bad enough we have to live with 8 time-zone changes. Let's at least get rid of one mindless chore we can all do without.
Now I'm not advocating a march on Washington, sending letters to your congressmen, or camping out on the White House lawn with signs that read: “SPRING AHEAD YES, FALL BACK NO!”
I'm just trying to rile you up and make you realize how your life is being manipulated and made needlessly complicated by creeps in Washington.
I'm betting you have better things to do than changing all those damn time pieces twice a year just because Congress, in their infinite wisdom, thinks it's a neat idea.
SPRING AHEAD is my story and I'm sticking with it. And I'm sure if Ben Franklin was still around, he'd back me up.
@#$%&@
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
SPARE ME YOUR PREDICTIONS
If predictions suddenly ceased to exist, the world wouldn't miss them. If not a total waste of time, they come as close to total waste as you can get.
In ancient Greece and Rome, military generals used to slaughter birds and chickens. Then with military precision and much deliberation, they would read the entrails. You know, intestines, guts, liver, bowels. Sickening stuff reminiscent of your typical medical series on TV.
The butchering was not done out of spite or total disregard for the lives of harmless animals. No, nothing savage like that from generals at war. The objective was simply to predict the outcome of an upcoming battle.
I'm sure you're all familiar with Nostradamus and his predictions. The only thing he did predict accurately was his own death. On the evening of July 1, 1556, he is said to have told his secretary, “You will not find me alive at sunrise.” And true to his word, when the sun rose, he didn't.
For no reason that anyone can justify, we celebrate Groundhog Day on February 2nd every year. Legend has it that if the groggy groundhog emerges from hibernation and sees his shadow, we get six more weeks of winter weather. So the determining factor in this esteemed tradition is whether the day happens to be sunny or cloudy.
Supposedly this pagan ritual began in Pennsylvania in the 18th century in a town with the unlikely name of Punxsutawney. The groundhog, named “Punxsutawney Phil” usually performs his prediction before an audience of 40,000 people and plenty of media coverage. Food is served, speeches are made, and every so often someone handling the hog is bitten and requires a shot for rabies.
Fortune telling, often practiced by gypsies, is the profitable art of pretending to predict people's futures. You could also toss into this group palm readers, clairvoyants, psychics, mystics, financial brokers, and those who read palms, tea leaves, crystal balls, and the bumps on your head. The only prediction you could make when dealing with these people on a regular basis is that your bank account will mysteriously dwindle.
Even fortune cookies – those crisp little cookies with words of wisdom on a twisted piece of paper--get to play the prediction game.
A secret admirer will soon send you a sign of affection.
Plan for many pleasures ahead.
Something you lost will soon turn up.
Happy news is on its way.
Flattery will go far tonight.
Sometimes we even find ourselves relying on things like a rabbit's foot, horseshoes, and 4-leaf clovers to bring us good luck in the future. Or we avoid black cats crossing our paths and walking under ladders to make sure we don't jinx whatever good luck we might have.
Forecasting the weather most certainly comes under the heading of Thermal Lows. First of all, half of the Meteorologists have trouble pronouncing the word. Or sound like they're drunk when they say it. Instead of MEE-tee-ur-ol-uh-jist, it often comes out meaty-ol-uh-jist. Or they totally slur the word and it comes out ME-ur-ol-a-jist.
The least they can do is pick an occupation they can pronounce.
Speaking of weather, I don't need to know if the barometer is rising or falling or going sideways. I have no idea what it is and I don't want to be enlightened. If the weather man can correctly guess what the weather will be like tomorrow morning, I'm happy.
What makes me mad are those 5-day forecasts. Are they a joke or what? Has anybody ever accurately predicted 5 days of weather? And please get those weather guys a freaking window so they don't say, “Right now it's sunny in Manhattan” when it's been raining for the past two hours.
And let's not forget the guys who walk around with signs and grim faces predicting THE END OF THE WORLD! Judging from signs throughout the ages, the end could come in the form of wars, earthquakes, pestilences, tidal waves, famines, false prophets, deadly asteroids, and a calamitous abundance of loud advertising commercials.
Let's hope the world won't end on a Friday and spoil everyone's weekend.
@#$%&@
In ancient Greece and Rome, military generals used to slaughter birds and chickens. Then with military precision and much deliberation, they would read the entrails. You know, intestines, guts, liver, bowels. Sickening stuff reminiscent of your typical medical series on TV.
The butchering was not done out of spite or total disregard for the lives of harmless animals. No, nothing savage like that from generals at war. The objective was simply to predict the outcome of an upcoming battle.
I'm sure you're all familiar with Nostradamus and his predictions. The only thing he did predict accurately was his own death. On the evening of July 1, 1556, he is said to have told his secretary, “You will not find me alive at sunrise.” And true to his word, when the sun rose, he didn't.
For no reason that anyone can justify, we celebrate Groundhog Day on February 2nd every year. Legend has it that if the groggy groundhog emerges from hibernation and sees his shadow, we get six more weeks of winter weather. So the determining factor in this esteemed tradition is whether the day happens to be sunny or cloudy.
Supposedly this pagan ritual began in Pennsylvania in the 18th century in a town with the unlikely name of Punxsutawney. The groundhog, named “Punxsutawney Phil” usually performs his prediction before an audience of 40,000 people and plenty of media coverage. Food is served, speeches are made, and every so often someone handling the hog is bitten and requires a shot for rabies.
Fortune telling, often practiced by gypsies, is the profitable art of pretending to predict people's futures. You could also toss into this group palm readers, clairvoyants, psychics, mystics, financial brokers, and those who read palms, tea leaves, crystal balls, and the bumps on your head. The only prediction you could make when dealing with these people on a regular basis is that your bank account will mysteriously dwindle.
Even fortune cookies – those crisp little cookies with words of wisdom on a twisted piece of paper--get to play the prediction game.
A secret admirer will soon send you a sign of affection.
Plan for many pleasures ahead.
Something you lost will soon turn up.
Happy news is on its way.
Flattery will go far tonight.
Sometimes we even find ourselves relying on things like a rabbit's foot, horseshoes, and 4-leaf clovers to bring us good luck in the future. Or we avoid black cats crossing our paths and walking under ladders to make sure we don't jinx whatever good luck we might have.
Forecasting the weather most certainly comes under the heading of Thermal Lows. First of all, half of the Meteorologists have trouble pronouncing the word. Or sound like they're drunk when they say it. Instead of MEE-tee-ur-ol-uh-jist, it often comes out meaty-ol-uh-jist. Or they totally slur the word and it comes out ME-ur-ol-a-jist.
The least they can do is pick an occupation they can pronounce.
Speaking of weather, I don't need to know if the barometer is rising or falling or going sideways. I have no idea what it is and I don't want to be enlightened. If the weather man can correctly guess what the weather will be like tomorrow morning, I'm happy.
What makes me mad are those 5-day forecasts. Are they a joke or what? Has anybody ever accurately predicted 5 days of weather? And please get those weather guys a freaking window so they don't say, “Right now it's sunny in Manhattan” when it's been raining for the past two hours.
And let's not forget the guys who walk around with signs and grim faces predicting THE END OF THE WORLD! Judging from signs throughout the ages, the end could come in the form of wars, earthquakes, pestilences, tidal waves, famines, false prophets, deadly asteroids, and a calamitous abundance of loud advertising commercials.
Let's hope the world won't end on a Friday and spoil everyone's weekend.
@#$%&@
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
HOME IS WHERE THE HARM IS
If you can believe The American Medical Association, roughly 70% of all U.S. Homes are lived in by dysfunctional members. Or nutjobs, in case the medical term wasn't clear.
Maybe that explains why we're inundated by this dilemma. It's hard to read a book, watch a movie, see a play, or poke fun at a TV sitcom without being reminded that most families are deeply disturbed.
And sometimes, rather than treat it as an embarrassing blight on our society, we choose to make light of it.
The Simpsons and Family Guy are two extremely popular and somewhat amusing TV cartoon shows that owe their very existence to aberrant family behavior.
Equally disturbing and confusing is the current trend of quitting a perfectly good and probably lucrative job to spend more time with a loopy family or impaired family member.
Before committing to such a radical and life-altering change, anyone considering this absurdity might want to give some thought to the following lengthy question.
Will whoever you're quitting your job for want to have you around for the rest of his or her life deciding what foods they should eat, which beverages are appropriate, whether they've had enough sleep, and how much exercise they need to lead a healthy and happy life?
The news is filled with stories about successful people active in politics, business, and sports retiring to spend more time with their families.
To give you a recent example, Lou Piniella, the 67-year-old Manager of the Chicago Cubs--the 14th winningest manager in baseball history, the second manager to have 1700 hits as a player and 1700 wins as a manager--has just quit his job to take care of his ailing mother in Florida.
Is that really a good idea?
I mean, it's a nice and kindly thing to do. But for Lou Piniella? “Sweet Lou” is a facetious nickname given to him because of his explosive temper, contempt for umpires, and volatile mood swings.
Lou loved to argue, get in your face, and kick dirt on the shoes of opposing coaches. Getting ejected from games for his sudden outbursts was a common occurrence.
Once, as a player, he was called out at first base. Convinced he was safe, “Sweet Lou” ripped first base out of the ground and threw it into right field.
Imagine what he might do to his ailing mother when she complains about his cooking or tells him to watch his locker-room language. And what if her temper is even worse than his?
Poor Lou might overcook a hamburger and get it thrown in his face – with the plate still attached to it.
Instead of quitting our jobs to spend more time with our families, maybe we should be quitting our families to spend more time with our jobs.
@#$%&@
Maybe that explains why we're inundated by this dilemma. It's hard to read a book, watch a movie, see a play, or poke fun at a TV sitcom without being reminded that most families are deeply disturbed.
And sometimes, rather than treat it as an embarrassing blight on our society, we choose to make light of it.
The Simpsons and Family Guy are two extremely popular and somewhat amusing TV cartoon shows that owe their very existence to aberrant family behavior.
Equally disturbing and confusing is the current trend of quitting a perfectly good and probably lucrative job to spend more time with a loopy family or impaired family member.
Before committing to such a radical and life-altering change, anyone considering this absurdity might want to give some thought to the following lengthy question.
Will whoever you're quitting your job for want to have you around for the rest of his or her life deciding what foods they should eat, which beverages are appropriate, whether they've had enough sleep, and how much exercise they need to lead a healthy and happy life?
The news is filled with stories about successful people active in politics, business, and sports retiring to spend more time with their families.
To give you a recent example, Lou Piniella, the 67-year-old Manager of the Chicago Cubs--the 14th winningest manager in baseball history, the second manager to have 1700 hits as a player and 1700 wins as a manager--has just quit his job to take care of his ailing mother in Florida.
Is that really a good idea?
I mean, it's a nice and kindly thing to do. But for Lou Piniella? “Sweet Lou” is a facetious nickname given to him because of his explosive temper, contempt for umpires, and volatile mood swings.
Lou loved to argue, get in your face, and kick dirt on the shoes of opposing coaches. Getting ejected from games for his sudden outbursts was a common occurrence.
Once, as a player, he was called out at first base. Convinced he was safe, “Sweet Lou” ripped first base out of the ground and threw it into right field.
Imagine what he might do to his ailing mother when she complains about his cooking or tells him to watch his locker-room language. And what if her temper is even worse than his?
Poor Lou might overcook a hamburger and get it thrown in his face – with the plate still attached to it.
Instead of quitting our jobs to spend more time with our families, maybe we should be quitting our families to spend more time with our jobs.
@#$%&@
Saturday, August 14, 2010
THE CASE AGAINST BULLSHIT
Nobody is claiming that BULLSHIT as an expletive, or utterance of contempt, is lacking in its power to satisfy the one hurling the time-honored profanity.
It's a perfectly fine word and fills the bill for anyone who gets slightly enraged when somebody says something that is clearly false, misleading or tries to pass off some bogus crap as the genuine article.
“BULLSHIT!” you say, and pretty much so does everyone else who is not heading to a monastery to take a vow of silence.
Let's try to break it down. “BULL” means nonsense and dates back to the 17th century. “SHIT” is self-explanatory and probably goes back to the caveman and his early attempts to express revulsion to his crude neighbors.
The evolution of this word probably went something like this.
SHH, SHA, SHU, SHO, SHEE, SHIT!
T.S. Eliot, the poet – in case you think he's a starting pitcher for the Yankees – wrote a poem sometime between 1910 and 1916 that never got published called “The Triumph of Bullshit.”
I guess the poetry lovers back then weren't ready for a poet held in high esteem to launch a potty-mouth tirade.
The point is, BULLSHIT has been around for a long time.
But now it's time for a change, something new and fresh and satisfying to blurt out during times of stress and agitation. The problem is, replacing BULLSHIT won't be easy.
HORSESHIT has been used successfully by some. Still it is no BULLSHIT.
MOOSESHIT … GATORSHIT … RHINOSHIT. All big enough, but somehow none of them carries the weight and gravitas of BULLSHIT.
I will continue to try and come up with an alternative. But if anyone out there has a suitable replacement for BULLSHIT, now is your chance to make a name for yourself.
@#$%&@
It's a perfectly fine word and fills the bill for anyone who gets slightly enraged when somebody says something that is clearly false, misleading or tries to pass off some bogus crap as the genuine article.
“BULLSHIT!” you say, and pretty much so does everyone else who is not heading to a monastery to take a vow of silence.
Let's try to break it down. “BULL” means nonsense and dates back to the 17th century. “SHIT” is self-explanatory and probably goes back to the caveman and his early attempts to express revulsion to his crude neighbors.
The evolution of this word probably went something like this.
SHH, SHA, SHU, SHO, SHEE, SHIT!
T.S. Eliot, the poet – in case you think he's a starting pitcher for the Yankees – wrote a poem sometime between 1910 and 1916 that never got published called “The Triumph of Bullshit.”
I guess the poetry lovers back then weren't ready for a poet held in high esteem to launch a potty-mouth tirade.
The point is, BULLSHIT has been around for a long time.
But now it's time for a change, something new and fresh and satisfying to blurt out during times of stress and agitation. The problem is, replacing BULLSHIT won't be easy.
HORSESHIT has been used successfully by some. Still it is no BULLSHIT.
MOOSESHIT … GATORSHIT … RHINOSHIT. All big enough, but somehow none of them carries the weight and gravitas of BULLSHIT.
I will continue to try and come up with an alternative. But if anyone out there has a suitable replacement for BULLSHIT, now is your chance to make a name for yourself.
@#$%&@
Sunday, May 16, 2010
LET'S ROAST SOME MOVIE CHESTNUTS
Here are some movie scenes I've seen too often.
I know almost nothing about horror films, since I rarely watch them. But I know this. A woman, being chased by a lunatic with a large knife or other weapon with life-taking potential, will always trip and fall.
She can be running on a perfectly level terrain, smooth as glass with nothing on it for miles, and she's going down. Apparently when casting for this role, the ability to trip easily is essential.
Speaking of running, whenever the lead actor realizes he's in love with a girl but didn't know it until the film was almost over, he runs to reach her and announce his undying devotion.
What is this obsession with running? Is there no other way to get to her and pour out his emotions? How about taking a train, bus, cab, or even a horse and carriage? Any one of these modes of transportation would get him there quicker and with less angst and perspiration.
And why don't women in romantic comedies ever run to tell the man of their dreams they can't live without him? Why is the triteness of running such a guy thing?
How come a man and woman destined to have a meaningful relationship start things off by bumping into one another? Could their meeting story not be more inventive? “Tell them how we banged into one another, sweet cheeks.”
To make it funnier, one or the other or both are carrying stuff that when knocked to the floor either breaks or spreads out all over the place. This usually results in a few minutes of awkward apologies, nervous giggles, and dumb dialogue.
Teenage comedies seem to rely on the humor of some guy getting kicked in the crotch, having a ball or other substantial object hurled at his crotch, or anything else having to do with his crotch being whacked and him lying in pain on the ground unable to speak and breathing with difficulty.
The man owning the crotch, if I may speak on behalf of the victim, is probably trying to figure out why his misery is so amusing to millions.
I suppose it's obligatory that I make some mention of filmdom's classic, the car chase. First of all, it's not really a car chase until at least one car bursts into flames and several police cars are demolished.
Then there's the crashing into a truck with crates of live chickens. Almost hitting a woman pushing a baby carriage. And jumping that half-raised bridge, just barely making it, while the trailing car goes flying off into the water.
Of course, no one ever runs out of gas in a car chase. But just once I think it would be fun if they did. “Rocko, if you're gonna be the driver of a getaway car, you gotta check the gas gauge before every holdup.”
Any exchange of shots between a good guy and a bad guy is as predictable as the smell of popcorn at a movie. Bad guys are notoriously bad shots. Armed with enough guns and ammunition to wipe out a small town, “bad guy” would be lucky to hit one fat guy on crutches wearing an illuminated target on his back.
Whereas a good guy wearing thick glasses and guzzling a beer will be able to pick off a skinny villain a hundred yards away using a rusty derringer.
It also strikes me as unlikely that nobody, at least in the movies I watch, ever needs a Kleenex after sex. And perfect strangers having a one-night stand always have an orgasm at the same time. Hey, hurray for Hollywood. Now let's celebrate this dubious triumph with the hackneyed cigarette scene.
In movies, when a lover is severely wounded or dying, nobody ever calls an ambulance or performs CPR. The movie makers think it's better to have the hero hold his loved one tenderly and whisper sweet nothings in her ear until she slumps over dead.
In a suspense movie, anyone saying, “What could possibly happen?” will die a horrible death in a matter of minutes.
Pretty much the same thing will happen in a war movie. Any soldier lovingly showing a picture of his wife or sweetheart –besides getting the usual lewd remarks from his buddies – will soon be shot or blown up by a grenade or something far more current and devastating.
Dogs will always bark at the bad guys. I don't know how they figure this out. It could be the dagger tattoos dripping with blood. Or maybe it's that awful criminal smell no amount of soap and water can destroy.
Jewel thieves are a special breed among criminals. Nothing common about them. They're always sophisticated, well-traveled, highly intelligent, and nimble enough to climb in and out of tight places. They are also incapable of resisting one last job before retiring and living with a hottie in some tropical paradise.
In western movies, a cowboy who hasn't carried a gun in twenty years will be eager to prove that just because he never practices doesn't mean he's not still a crack shot. Usually he borrows a gun from some brain-damaged local, tosses a coin up in the air and puts a bullet through its center.
Having won admiring glances from the crowd, the gunless wonder will then walk away while some typical western music swells to indicate that a victory for law and decency has just been won.
A hero cowboy will often ride away into the sunset after cleaning up a town filled with murderous varmints with absolutely no help from any of its cowardly inhabitants.
Then there's the suspense thrillers. No matter how convinced you are that you've killed a bad guy, he will still rise from the dead and attempt to rip your throat out.
The killer has been stabbed, shot, hit with an anvil, drowned in the tub, and thrown down an elevator shaft. But soon, and miraculously, he will reappear from behind a closed door enraged by the indignities he has suffered at the hands of the man he attempted to maim and slaughter.
It's late at night. The husband and wife are sleeping. Suddenly a loud noise or shot is heard. “I'll check it out, sweetie,” the husband says, armed with nothing but his inflated ego. When he doesn't return after five minutes, the wife ventures out to look for him in her transparent nightie and says, “Honey, are you okay?”
HONEY is not okay and soon SWEETIE will be in big trouble.
P.S. If you have additional gripes about movie bromides and you'd care to share them, send me your comments. If I like them, I'll use them and give you no credit whatsoever.
@#$%&@
I know almost nothing about horror films, since I rarely watch them. But I know this. A woman, being chased by a lunatic with a large knife or other weapon with life-taking potential, will always trip and fall.
She can be running on a perfectly level terrain, smooth as glass with nothing on it for miles, and she's going down. Apparently when casting for this role, the ability to trip easily is essential.
Speaking of running, whenever the lead actor realizes he's in love with a girl but didn't know it until the film was almost over, he runs to reach her and announce his undying devotion.
What is this obsession with running? Is there no other way to get to her and pour out his emotions? How about taking a train, bus, cab, or even a horse and carriage? Any one of these modes of transportation would get him there quicker and with less angst and perspiration.
And why don't women in romantic comedies ever run to tell the man of their dreams they can't live without him? Why is the triteness of running such a guy thing?
How come a man and woman destined to have a meaningful relationship start things off by bumping into one another? Could their meeting story not be more inventive? “Tell them how we banged into one another, sweet cheeks.”
To make it funnier, one or the other or both are carrying stuff that when knocked to the floor either breaks or spreads out all over the place. This usually results in a few minutes of awkward apologies, nervous giggles, and dumb dialogue.
Teenage comedies seem to rely on the humor of some guy getting kicked in the crotch, having a ball or other substantial object hurled at his crotch, or anything else having to do with his crotch being whacked and him lying in pain on the ground unable to speak and breathing with difficulty.
The man owning the crotch, if I may speak on behalf of the victim, is probably trying to figure out why his misery is so amusing to millions.
I suppose it's obligatory that I make some mention of filmdom's classic, the car chase. First of all, it's not really a car chase until at least one car bursts into flames and several police cars are demolished.
Then there's the crashing into a truck with crates of live chickens. Almost hitting a woman pushing a baby carriage. And jumping that half-raised bridge, just barely making it, while the trailing car goes flying off into the water.
Of course, no one ever runs out of gas in a car chase. But just once I think it would be fun if they did. “Rocko, if you're gonna be the driver of a getaway car, you gotta check the gas gauge before every holdup.”
Any exchange of shots between a good guy and a bad guy is as predictable as the smell of popcorn at a movie. Bad guys are notoriously bad shots. Armed with enough guns and ammunition to wipe out a small town, “bad guy” would be lucky to hit one fat guy on crutches wearing an illuminated target on his back.
Whereas a good guy wearing thick glasses and guzzling a beer will be able to pick off a skinny villain a hundred yards away using a rusty derringer.
It also strikes me as unlikely that nobody, at least in the movies I watch, ever needs a Kleenex after sex. And perfect strangers having a one-night stand always have an orgasm at the same time. Hey, hurray for Hollywood. Now let's celebrate this dubious triumph with the hackneyed cigarette scene.
In movies, when a lover is severely wounded or dying, nobody ever calls an ambulance or performs CPR. The movie makers think it's better to have the hero hold his loved one tenderly and whisper sweet nothings in her ear until she slumps over dead.
In a suspense movie, anyone saying, “What could possibly happen?” will die a horrible death in a matter of minutes.
Pretty much the same thing will happen in a war movie. Any soldier lovingly showing a picture of his wife or sweetheart –besides getting the usual lewd remarks from his buddies – will soon be shot or blown up by a grenade or something far more current and devastating.
Dogs will always bark at the bad guys. I don't know how they figure this out. It could be the dagger tattoos dripping with blood. Or maybe it's that awful criminal smell no amount of soap and water can destroy.
Jewel thieves are a special breed among criminals. Nothing common about them. They're always sophisticated, well-traveled, highly intelligent, and nimble enough to climb in and out of tight places. They are also incapable of resisting one last job before retiring and living with a hottie in some tropical paradise.
In western movies, a cowboy who hasn't carried a gun in twenty years will be eager to prove that just because he never practices doesn't mean he's not still a crack shot. Usually he borrows a gun from some brain-damaged local, tosses a coin up in the air and puts a bullet through its center.
Having won admiring glances from the crowd, the gunless wonder will then walk away while some typical western music swells to indicate that a victory for law and decency has just been won.
A hero cowboy will often ride away into the sunset after cleaning up a town filled with murderous varmints with absolutely no help from any of its cowardly inhabitants.
Then there's the suspense thrillers. No matter how convinced you are that you've killed a bad guy, he will still rise from the dead and attempt to rip your throat out.
The killer has been stabbed, shot, hit with an anvil, drowned in the tub, and thrown down an elevator shaft. But soon, and miraculously, he will reappear from behind a closed door enraged by the indignities he has suffered at the hands of the man he attempted to maim and slaughter.
It's late at night. The husband and wife are sleeping. Suddenly a loud noise or shot is heard. “I'll check it out, sweetie,” the husband says, armed with nothing but his inflated ego. When he doesn't return after five minutes, the wife ventures out to look for him in her transparent nightie and says, “Honey, are you okay?”
HONEY is not okay and soon SWEETIE will be in big trouble.
P.S. If you have additional gripes about movie bromides and you'd care to share them, send me your comments. If I like them, I'll use them and give you no credit whatsoever.
@#$%&@
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
KNOWING WHEN TO SHUT UP
News, even though it's mostly bad, is a good thing. We need to know what's going on. But what we don't need is overly detailed information that could prove deadly or even catastrophic to people visiting or living here in New York City.
Take the case of the recent and very scary car bomb incident in the heart of Times Square. The SUV was parked in the theatre district, across the street from “The Lion King.” Nothing blew up, as it turned out, but the car was loaded with propane canisters, petrol, fireworks, gasoline containers, and a hundred pounds of the wrong kind of fertilizer.
Now we're coming to the part that pisses me off.
“The would-be bomber,” we were told by authorities, “packed the car with more than one hundred pounds of fertilizer, but not the kind that would explode.”
Well, thanks for sharing. Maybe if they had stopped there, things would have been fine. But no, they wanted to tell you just how thorough they could be.
“Had the bomber chosen the right kind of fertilizer, the bomb would have had the force of more than 100 pounds of TNT.”
I'm impressed with your ability to dig up information on such short notice. But please, I'm begging you, just shut the hell up!
“Instead of ammonium nitrite, the kind of fertilizer used by Oklahoma City Bomber, Timothy McVeigh, the bomber used a harmless fertilizer,” the spokesman said.
Good one! Instructive! Now we've all got the message. Why get a harmless fertilizer when with the right fertilizer you can easily create a killer fireball that will wreak havoc upon humanity and devastate heavily populated areas.
The newspaper carrying this article has thousands and thousands of readers – some of whom are nutjobs and would be perfectly willing to blow something up if only they knew how.
It's disturbing enough that U.S. Citizens like Faisal Shahzad-- pulled off a flight to Dubai – is willing to spend months, even years thinking up ways to destroy us.
Why aid and abet the enemy? Putting too much “helpful” information in the media is like doing a recruitment ad for wannabe and real terrorists seeking glory and violent deaths.
YOU TOO CAN DETONATE A CAR BOMB! IT'S QUICK! IT'S EASY! AND IF YOU DIE, WE TOSS IN THE VIRGINS!
@#$%&@
Take the case of the recent and very scary car bomb incident in the heart of Times Square. The SUV was parked in the theatre district, across the street from “The Lion King.” Nothing blew up, as it turned out, but the car was loaded with propane canisters, petrol, fireworks, gasoline containers, and a hundred pounds of the wrong kind of fertilizer.
Now we're coming to the part that pisses me off.
“The would-be bomber,” we were told by authorities, “packed the car with more than one hundred pounds of fertilizer, but not the kind that would explode.”
Well, thanks for sharing. Maybe if they had stopped there, things would have been fine. But no, they wanted to tell you just how thorough they could be.
“Had the bomber chosen the right kind of fertilizer, the bomb would have had the force of more than 100 pounds of TNT.”
I'm impressed with your ability to dig up information on such short notice. But please, I'm begging you, just shut the hell up!
“Instead of ammonium nitrite, the kind of fertilizer used by Oklahoma City Bomber, Timothy McVeigh, the bomber used a harmless fertilizer,” the spokesman said.
Good one! Instructive! Now we've all got the message. Why get a harmless fertilizer when with the right fertilizer you can easily create a killer fireball that will wreak havoc upon humanity and devastate heavily populated areas.
The newspaper carrying this article has thousands and thousands of readers – some of whom are nutjobs and would be perfectly willing to blow something up if only they knew how.
It's disturbing enough that U.S. Citizens like Faisal Shahzad-- pulled off a flight to Dubai – is willing to spend months, even years thinking up ways to destroy us.
Why aid and abet the enemy? Putting too much “helpful” information in the media is like doing a recruitment ad for wannabe and real terrorists seeking glory and violent deaths.
YOU TOO CAN DETONATE A CAR BOMB! IT'S QUICK! IT'S EASY! AND IF YOU DIE, WE TOSS IN THE VIRGINS!
@#$%&@
Friday, April 30, 2010
NFL SEARCHES PRISONS FOR TOP DRAFT PICKS!
Instead of scouting colleges all over the country, scouts should spend time in prisons talking to wardens.
Get a list of their nastiest inmates and find out if they can kick, pass, block, run, tackle--and if they enjoy inflicting pain and season-ending injuries on opposing players.
If you think this is far-fetched, here's an NFL reality check.
Charles Grant, a 6-foot-3, 290-pound defensive lineman for the New Orleans Saints, was indicted recently for the fatal shooting of a pregnant woman and her unborn child.
Pacman Jones, a Dallas Cowboys corner back, has a rap sheet that hardened criminals would envy. He's been charged with assault and vandalism in a nightclub, a violent habit that began back in his high school days. Jones got in a fight at a strip club and beat a stripper's head against the bar, then threatened to kill one of the club's employees for trying to stop him.
The Dallas Cowboys assigned two burly bodyguards to keep their costly investment out of trouble. He ended up attacking them.
Marshall Lynch, a Buffalo Bills running back, has been arrested for possession of a loaded firearm. Last summer, while driving his luxury SUV, he drove into a woman and sped away. She was left with a bruised hip and 7 stitches. Marshall got fined $100 and received a 3-game suspension. There's no record of his doing time. But then, you probably wouldn't do time either if you were considered the #1 running back in the country.
Tank Johnson, a tackle for the Cincinnati Bengals, has been arrested for possession of 6 firearms, resisting arrest, attacking a police officer, and driving while drunk. His coach, Lovey Smith, has been known to visit Tank in jail.
Brandon Marshall, nicknamed “The Beast,” is a wide receiver for the Miami Dolphins. “The Beast” has been arrested for drunken driving, domestic violence, driving without a license, and punching his fiancee for a reason not yet explained.
Donte Stallworth, a wide receiver for the Cleveland Browns, hit and killed a pedestrian while driving drunk. If convicted, he faces up to 15 years in prison. But with skills like his, I'm guessing he'd be out in a year.
Michael Vick, as any football fan knows, was released from prison after serving 2 years for operating an illegal dog-fighting ring and killing the dogs that didn't do well. The ex-Atlanta Falcons quarterback is now a backup QB for the Philadelphia Eagles. Apparently committing despicable acts is not a hindrance in the NFL, it's a prerequisite.
And I would be less than thorough if I left out the names of Ben Roethlisberger and Plaxico Burress.
Ben, star quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers, is being accused of sexually assaulting a drunken college student in a bathroom somewhere in Atlanta. So far he's been given a 6-game suspension by NFL commissioner Roger Goodell. The odds makers in Las Vegas are betting it'll end up being a 2-game suspension and giving 50-yard-line tickets to the ravaged co-ed.
Plaxico Burress, former wide receiver for the New York Giants, is currently serving a 2-year prison term, but will likely get out in 20 months for good behavior. Plaxico has a long string of domestic disturbances and civil lawsuits.
But the criminal behavior that launched him into the national spotlight and highlighted his lack of anything resembling common sense was tucking his Glock pistol into the waistband of his jeans and bringing it to a New York City nightclub. While there he accidentally discharged it, shooting himself in the thigh literally and in the foot figuratively.
How this man learns intricate pass patterns is beyond me.
Maybe they should give big fat bonuses to football players who get through a season without being arrested. Either that, or make NFL stand for NATIONAL FELONS LEAGUE.
@#$%&@
Get a list of their nastiest inmates and find out if they can kick, pass, block, run, tackle--and if they enjoy inflicting pain and season-ending injuries on opposing players.
If you think this is far-fetched, here's an NFL reality check.
Charles Grant, a 6-foot-3, 290-pound defensive lineman for the New Orleans Saints, was indicted recently for the fatal shooting of a pregnant woman and her unborn child.
Pacman Jones, a Dallas Cowboys corner back, has a rap sheet that hardened criminals would envy. He's been charged with assault and vandalism in a nightclub, a violent habit that began back in his high school days. Jones got in a fight at a strip club and beat a stripper's head against the bar, then threatened to kill one of the club's employees for trying to stop him.
The Dallas Cowboys assigned two burly bodyguards to keep their costly investment out of trouble. He ended up attacking them.
Marshall Lynch, a Buffalo Bills running back, has been arrested for possession of a loaded firearm. Last summer, while driving his luxury SUV, he drove into a woman and sped away. She was left with a bruised hip and 7 stitches. Marshall got fined $100 and received a 3-game suspension. There's no record of his doing time. But then, you probably wouldn't do time either if you were considered the #1 running back in the country.
Tank Johnson, a tackle for the Cincinnati Bengals, has been arrested for possession of 6 firearms, resisting arrest, attacking a police officer, and driving while drunk. His coach, Lovey Smith, has been known to visit Tank in jail.
Brandon Marshall, nicknamed “The Beast,” is a wide receiver for the Miami Dolphins. “The Beast” has been arrested for drunken driving, domestic violence, driving without a license, and punching his fiancee for a reason not yet explained.
Donte Stallworth, a wide receiver for the Cleveland Browns, hit and killed a pedestrian while driving drunk. If convicted, he faces up to 15 years in prison. But with skills like his, I'm guessing he'd be out in a year.
Michael Vick, as any football fan knows, was released from prison after serving 2 years for operating an illegal dog-fighting ring and killing the dogs that didn't do well. The ex-Atlanta Falcons quarterback is now a backup QB for the Philadelphia Eagles. Apparently committing despicable acts is not a hindrance in the NFL, it's a prerequisite.
And I would be less than thorough if I left out the names of Ben Roethlisberger and Plaxico Burress.
Ben, star quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers, is being accused of sexually assaulting a drunken college student in a bathroom somewhere in Atlanta. So far he's been given a 6-game suspension by NFL commissioner Roger Goodell. The odds makers in Las Vegas are betting it'll end up being a 2-game suspension and giving 50-yard-line tickets to the ravaged co-ed.
Plaxico Burress, former wide receiver for the New York Giants, is currently serving a 2-year prison term, but will likely get out in 20 months for good behavior. Plaxico has a long string of domestic disturbances and civil lawsuits.
But the criminal behavior that launched him into the national spotlight and highlighted his lack of anything resembling common sense was tucking his Glock pistol into the waistband of his jeans and bringing it to a New York City nightclub. While there he accidentally discharged it, shooting himself in the thigh literally and in the foot figuratively.
How this man learns intricate pass patterns is beyond me.
Maybe they should give big fat bonuses to football players who get through a season without being arrested. Either that, or make NFL stand for NATIONAL FELONS LEAGUE.
@#$%&@
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