Dumbidity

I'm Just Askin' - XXII

Today, November 30th, marks the end of Hurricane Season. A record year, 2005 saw 26 named storms, using all the pre-established storm names and diving into the contingency pile of Greek letters for the first time since the system was implemented.

As of right now, T.S. Epsilon still churns in the middle of the Atlantic, with some forecasters projecting that it could become a Cat 1 hurricane.

If it does, and if the USAF weather planes go after it tomorrow, will they be subject to charges of hunting hurricanes out of season?

I'm Just Askin' - XXI

From time to time we'll hear some feel-good story about someone having trouble out in public and someone else steps up and helps out. They're called "Good Samaritans."

Most of the time the story is about car trouble, from breakdowns to serious accidents - in fact, there are even laws written to protect the medical professionals from lawsuits when they're Johnny/Janie-on-the-Spot for crash victims. It's generally referred to as a "Good Samaritan Law".

But let's say you've had minor car trouble - say a flat tire - and some guy pulls over to help out. In the course of "helping," it turns out he's mechanically inept and cracks your hubcap, deflates your spare trying to check its pressure and cross-threads the few lug nuts he doesn't lose down a storm drain.

Or worse - he, instead of helping, simply robs you at gunpoint.

Would you refer to this guy as a "Bad Samaritan"?

I'm Just Askin' - XX

Considering all the scary things going on in the world today done by people who speak and write in a language that is alien to 99.9% of all Americans. And considering even the simplest warning signs in everyday conversation would probably go unnoticed for that very reason. And considering the enemy we face isn't likely to go quietly away very soon.

Would it make sense to add Middle-Eastern languages to the thin mix of foreign language taught in the Government Schools?

I'm Just Askin' - XIX

When I was growing up, I got bitten badly by the sci-fi bug. Early on, I watched the Flash Gordon serial on the morning chid shows. There were plenty enough class B science fiction movies that one could expect them to be on TV early enough on a Saturday or Sunday to catch a couple-three a month.

There were two things that made sci-fi movies so cool - one was interplanetary/galactic space travel. That was pretty cool, but one had to suspend one's first-hand knowledge of the unpleasantries associated with traveling vast distances in confined quarters (actually that was easy, because they didn't spend much time on the mind-numbingly dull stretches of time, and the interiors of the space vehicles were, in a word, cavernous).

The other thing that was so cool as to push absolute zero was: Lasers!

All the well-equipped space explorers had lasers strapped to their hips like Colt dragoon pistols. Lasers would take out just about anything that threatened them, their spacecraft or their mission. Lasers were quite effective in saving the requisite damsels in dis dress who drew space monsters and evil space persons to them like flies to honey. Of course, like the cowboy who'd just fired his sixth shot and needed a seventh, the batteries would conk out, setting up an exciting escape.

I always wanted a laser. A nice hip-holstered model would've been ideal, but I would've been satisfied with a big one that fit in the back of a quarter-ton truck and was capable of cutting down the armored doors at Fort Knox.

Well, the other day it occurred to me that I own not one, but several lasers. In fact, I own (or more accurately, house) at least twenty such devices. The fact that they won't reduce an intergalactic terrorist to a puddle of goo or blow up kamakazi asteroids is a minor point - at the rate they're going, Home Depot will have one I can use to edge the yard, cut hedges and brand cattle. We have 7 in computers, 6 more in various CD players the schmedlets are breaking, 3 in cars, 3 DVD players attached to TVs, and an X-Box.

So how many lasers do you own?

I'm Just Askin' - XVIII

Prompted by this article describing how JOHN316 is being prohibited as a vanity plate in Vermont because it's "a combination that refers to deity", I got to thinking about how the several states go about deselecting various alphabetical combinations on standard-issue plates.

In Louisiana, the format for the license number on a personal vehicle is 3 letters, a space and 3 numbers, voila: "AAA 000". For vanity plates, the state restricts alphanumeric combinations  containing "ethnic, racial, vulgar, or indecent connotations which may be offensive to good taste and decency." While I wasn't able to (quickly) find their rules for standard-issue plates, it's a safe bet they're consistent.

The state must have some committee responsible for looking through the combinations and removing the verboten ones so you don't get a plate with an "A" followed by a pair of "S"s; "F" or "S" followed by a "U" and any of "X, C, or K" (or "DI" preceeding any of the latter letters). I would think you won't see any triple "K"s or "X"s either, but I have seen "JAX".

Speaking of JAX, it used to be a popular brand of beer in these parts, and I even ran across a website that sells vintage brewski TV commercials.

So much for pandering to certain audience members - where was I?

There are quite a few rather odd combinations that I've seen with my own eyes that I would've thought would be screened out: JRK (is there a JFK?); GRL (but no BOY); JIZ (honestly, if that showed up for my car, it would be reported "lost/stolen" immediately); JIW (which might give the Vermont DMV fits); and JIF (which seems to tread near the line drawn by the vanity restriction prohibiting "a patented logo").

Did they redline ASP, BOO, CIG, DUI, DWI, FDR, MLK, BRP, FRT, SBD or TOX?

What about real words that might possibly be objectionable to the PC crowd or some other fringe bunch like BUG, CUT, DUX, GIN or NUT, PET, POT or POX?

Would someone in the military interpret certain acronyms like MRE (Meals Ready-to-Eat), FNG ("Fairly" New Guy), RPG (Rocket-Propelled Grenade) or SOL ("Slightly" Out of Luck)?

The funny thing is, there are some who'd object to putting any/all of those (and many, many more) on their cars and others who'd pay extra to get one.

But what will the Vermont Plate-Notsies do when Mr. Byrne pops up in court with pictures of Official Vermont-Issued Plates containing a digital representation of the deity worshipped by certain people in this country - the number just before 667?

I'm Just Askin' - XVII

Traffic's been light these last few mornings, and so today we're all rippin' down the highway by the dawn's early light.

For the life of me, I'll never understand why anyone would want to drive alongside any sort of large truckish vehicle at 70 miles an hour or so for any longer than it takes to pass it, but I see idiots do it 5-6 times a week. They'll go for miles with no one in front of either of 'em until the rest of us are packed in behind 'em like a pod of orcas. One little slip and we're all gonna be on the news tonight. Lead (I don't care if you go faster than me), follow (just don't stay on my bumper) or (better yet) GET OUTTA THE WAY!

This morning's fool is content to creep by this tank truck in the left lane at a relative three-tenths of a mile an hour faster than the tank truck driver, who is pushing a healthy 75 on his own as we all approach the spillway. I'm second in line.

I'm hanging back a little, probably in the trucker's blind spot, waiting for Professor Einbrain to finally clear it. And while I'm monitoring Donnie Deathwish in the Altima (who's saving oodles of gas drafting behind the truck he's so close), I notice the label on the tanker:

MOLTEN SULFUR.

So I think for a minute that you gotta get sulfur pretty darn hot for it to melt enough to squirt inside a tank, and once it's inside a tank behind a truck, you gotta do something to keep it hot, and that something probably involves a heating element or maybe even flame. I reach a logical conclusion that even a minor crash with this tank puts hundreds, no, thousands of pounds of rotten-egg stinky, molten sulfur all over everything - possibly causing severe injury or even death.

Is that what they mean by Hell on Wheels?

I'm Just Askin' - XVI

I'm way overdue for an IJA post, and brudda Dave he'pt me out by chronicling an egregiously non-chivalrous act by a smug, smarmy, selfish little man.

I was raised reared (in the South) to say "yes sir/ma'am" and "no ma'am/sir" to all those with whom I interacted and to address my elders/equals/betters as "Mister Surname" or "Missus/Miss Surname" until invited to be more familiar (or it became obviously appropriate to do so). I do use the cover of my southern drawl to obfuscate my ignorance of a specific individual's Mrs/Ms distinction when necessary. The words please, thank-you and "you're welcome" are also frequently deployed as a matter of course, though I sometimes catch myself using the dismissive "no problem" for the latter.

It has been my experience that this form of respect works wonders in nearly all situations to facilitate pleasant interaction and frequently prevents adversarial encounters when they might otherwise be probable. It also tends to get sir/ma'am, please/thankyou in return and helps make the most mundane matters more tolerable for all involved - even bystanders.

The other thing I do, almost without thinking, is to open doors for ladies. All wimmings are ladies until they conclusively prove otherwise, as are those bearing indistinguishable gender-specific traits, though I would choose a ma'am/sir very carefully - if at all - to avoid offense.

Most buildings these days have multiple doors to conserve air-conditioned air. This means that when I hold the street door for a lady with a "please ma'am, after you", she typically holds the interior door for me.*

Does this cover things for the feministas out there decrying Chivalry while demanding equal fairness?

*The alternative is to rush around and ahead of her which is a bit much, not to mention awkward. Should I wind up holding the door for a gaggle number of nice ladies, I sometimes ask them to remember to tip me come Christmas - always with a broad big smile.

I'm Just Askin' - XV

I remember the first time I had 'em: in the Gordon Theatre on 4^th street watching The Big Mouth with my cousin. I have no idea why I selected them, but I quickly discovered in the darkened theatre that they were too tasty to wasty by surreptitiously tossing them into the sea of heads like a jellybean.

Junior Mints®. Mmmmmmm.

Chocolatey.

Minty.

Many.

I still think The Big Mouth was one of the funniest Jerry Lewis movies. The comic device I liked the most was how each of the 'syndicate' hit men who had supposedly bumped off Lewis' doppelganger went mental when they caught sight of him. We're talking Ed Grimsley mental 20 years before Grimsley. In fact, one of 'em - when he gorks at seeing Gerald (Lewis), his hair flies up into 3 stiff points (top and sides) - similar to Grimsley. Another guy, a big, oafish pug, is on all fours leaning over a pier, so when he sees Gerald, he becomes a dog - reminiscent of the Curly Howard breed version. The only thug with any semblance of originality is Rex (Charley Callas) - he becomes a mumbling, tic-afflicted mess. Callas' paroxysmic portrayal still gives me fits of laughter.

By the time all the grimslified mobsters were converging on Gerald at the end, my Junior Mint box was yompty, yet my appetite for the small confections still raged. While I might not have been aware of the question at the time, it was clearly embedded in my subconscious:

How big are the Senior Mints^®, and where can one get them?

Aye Me Hearties, I Be Askin' - Arrrr!

Avast there, ye scurvy dogs! I be havin' a question for ye.

Many of ya land-locked picaroons step away from swabbin' the decks as it were in the cube-filled bilges of yer office schooners and have a cup of that foul black grog they call "java." Some of ye even step off the gangplank and have a smoke of terbaccy with the wharf rats, and no one looks askance as ye layabouts pass the time jawbonin' and spout doggerel, not the First Mate nor the Cap'n neither, arrrr!

But just once have one of ye crawl to 'is rack and catch a wink or forty t'refresh 'is achin' back. Arrrr! Th' Cap'n'll take each freebootin' one of ye and strap ye to the wheel to be bit by the cat'o'nine-tails!

An' as they catches ye at it again, maybe noddin' in the crow's nest, by Neptune, they'll 'ave ye keel-hauled!

Either way, ye've wasted 15 or 20 minutes of the Cap'n's precious time, but don't ye figger ye'll be more productive after a short, refreshin' snooze than playin' chin music to a mug of joe?

OK, so I missed TLAP day yesterday and backdated this entry. So sue me, ye bellyachin' whelp of a Sea Hag! Arrrrr!

I'm Just Askin' - Rx

Buzzing the treetops in the bi-plane on the way up I-10 this evening, I get a predictable call from the tower on the wireless. It's Gracie, one of my rushin' daughters, who's home for a spell calling to relay instructions to pass by Walgreed's to pick up a prescription for my Dear Sweet Wife.

We'll skip the part about the poor schmuck who dropped some huge metal object off his truck on the Siegen Lane overpass, punching a large hole through the interstate, menacing drivers underneath with an avalanch of concrete and bits of reinforcing steel, but suffice it to say, Dave's commute is gonna ess-yew-see-kay donkies in the morning.

Where was I? Oh yes, at Walgreed's.

I've got the whole medicine thing set up on insta-pay of some type and I drove up to the outside lane (bypassing 4 cars in the inside lane) just as the tard in front of me pulled out of the drive-by. POOF! Innanout in 3 minutes.

I get home, triumphantly hoisting the fresh pills on high to show my mate what a fine hunter-gatherer she married, set down my traps, hugs and kisses all around (well, not all around since I tend to politely skip most schmedlet associates) and check the mail. Nothing of interest there, so all I need to do now before dinner is get the IRS-required medical expense documentation.

Rip.

Poke.

Tear.

Puncture.

Shred.

Impale.

It's the same way with every clerk at every location of Walgreed's and every other pharmacy regardless of race, creed, color or lifestyle choice.

Could they POSSIBLY put any MORE staples to affix the tags to the bags?