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“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nippin’ at your nose.
Yuletide carols bein’ sung by a choir,
and folks dressed up like eskimos,…”

Johnny Mathis
The Christmas song


Christmas Season.

That time of year when we get suckered into buyin’ crap that people don’t need for people who simply don’t care. That time of year when warm handshakes replace the cold twisting of the knife into the backs and necks of our co-workers. That time of year where waitresses devilishly greet your table wearin’ a push-up bra and a Santa hat.


That time of year when it’s all inclusive. It doesn’t matter one whit if you’re Christian, Jew or Misc.

It has been diluted down so it’s palatable for everyone. You could be a Satanist and still reap the benefits of Christmas. It’s turned into a generic holiday,…like Labor Day. I have yet to see a Satanist turn down a Christmas bonus or free turkey on principle. I have yet to see a Muslim reject a gift certificate to Sear’s because it doesn’t go along with his turbaned belief system. It’s simply a time of year that everyone can get behind because it’s that time of year where we have been suckered into caring for a fellow man “just a little bit more”.

That’s all fine and good. We always could use a little more caring for our fellow man. There’s not enough of it the other 11 months out of the year. I’m diggin’ that. But in this day and age of political correctness, we have watered it down to “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”

I guess my point of contention about this whole thing is that it has become something that it shouldn’t be. It has become a bit of a placating drug for the Fritz Lang Metropolites who simply go along with it because everyone else is goin’ along with it. It gets thinned out into pure nothingness, for the sake of political correctness, so as not to offend any of the rebellious individuals who are not matrixed enough to have a brief, cogent thought as to the reasons why their waitress is accenting her breasts while wearing a fuzzy, white and red hat.

Sounds like I’m a Theist, don’t it?…Atheist?…Agnostic?

None of the above. I will simply state for the record that I am a Christian in my belief.

I simply state this for the record, not as a matter to be debated or argued….because that is not the import of this post. The import of this post is about the Christmas season itself.

I find there are certain aspects of this season that I fail to comprehend. One of the most glaring is this Jekyll and Hyde nature that we humans tend to engage in immediately after the Thanksgiving Day bird carcass is on its merry way to the garbage dump. There is a convoluted metamorphosis that takes place in which we actually demonstrate the fact that we don’t hate each other as much as we would like people to believe…of which this fact is none more apparent than in the yearly appearance of the Salvation Army kettles and bells that pop up in doorways of fine local merchants. We throw in a buck to help those less fortunate,…like Tiny Tim and Mickey Rourke,…and it makes us look good to the sheer volume of rabid holiday shoppers who are in search of great deals on a “good” aftershave like Stetson.


This is the time of year that we drag an artificial tree out of our attic and assemble said tree in our living rooms…so as to impress our friends and relatives with our tree adorning acumen….and nobody sees anything wrong with this seemingly mentally unstable behavior.

(I know, I know. The religious implications are there. Martin Luther was the first one to do this. But!,…if it was first done by Martin Luther, why are so many Catholics into this ritual? And, more importantly, why did Martin Luther do this in the first place? What does it denote? Why do I have to put a tree in my living room one month outta the year?)

This tree,…this fake tree that is relegated to it’s very own space in our attics or under our basement stairs,…is pulled out of its cardboard home every year and, after it is opened, we are left with the same despairing feeling that we had when we put it in the box last year. It’s like a time machine. The ornaments are wrapped in newspaper pages, the origin of which was almost to the day of when the box was last repackaged.

We are reminded about the year past and generally it’s really not a good feeling. We know our healthcare is going to go up. Relationships falter or grow,…and strange hairs appear where there were none last year. The dog may have had to have been replaced and that transmission might’ve finally given out. This is usually not the time to count one’s blessings….nor is there time to do so because your hands and mind will soon be consumed with the arduous task of having to untangle the miles of Christmas tree lights that have somehow gathered themselves into a twisted mess in spite of the delicate and careful nature in which you stored them last year. It’s as if, during the course of the year past, these lights slowly wormed and squirmed their way into a tangle while sitting inanimate in a box designated for the storage of such spiteful electronics.

We pull out the ornaments that mean something to us. Usually the ones from childhood,…because that is truly the last time we were innocent and carefree,..and it’s these ornaments that we want visible because they still somehow mesmerize. Not the ones which were handed out as souvenirs at the last work Christmas party,…the one in which your boss made a drunken pass at your wife….handmade by a craftsman in the Philippines.

We, the collective we, engage in this asinine ritual that has little or no meaning to the true nature of Christmas. Yet we continue to do this, year after year, in spite of the lack of reason afforded to it.

I simply don’t understand, I guess.

It’s usually right after Thanksgiving that the radio stations declare that there is gonna be non-stop Christmas music until Christmas. I always wince when I hear that. It’s not because I’m a Scrooge, it’s more because the adult-contempo music scene is rife with people who want to put their own spin on a classic that should never be screwed with. Let’s leave “White Christmas” to Bing, “Blue Christmas” to Elvis, “The Christmas Song” to Johnny and “Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town” to Bruce. Everyone else, I’m afraid, pales in comparison. There is no point in Kenny G tryin’ to pull off “Carol of the Bells” on his tiny little girlie-man sax. All that succeeds in doing is irritating Christmas shoppers who are already irritated as it is.

Shopping, lunches, lights, trees, eggnog, ornaments, gifts, family, friends, tinsel, holly, ivy, reindeer underwear, socks, sweaters, TV specials, receipts, busty waitresses….


And when you look to the world of spirituality for a brief respite, you find that there is none.

Church services also tend to go where the lack of reason is painfully apparent.

As the Christmas season approaches, churches tend to ruminate about how their services can become grander than the year before. The band has to be bigger, the lighting has to be better, and the choir has to be on full tilt. The thought of a fog machine plays out as a rational possibility as plans are made for the dramatization of the birth of Christ.

“We must have a state of the art manger! Spare no expense!…who’s playin’ Mary? Can she sing falsetto?,…what about the drummer boy? Can we get Stig out from behind the kit to really wail on that sparkly snare he has?…Call the Smiths. They just had a kid. See if we can get them to let us use it for our baby Jesus…”

I mean, it almost borders on the insane. The churches become as decked out as the shopping malls, complete with the lack of explanation about the freakin’ tree in the lobby, man. I mean, if every church has a tree, in some way, shape or form, isn’t a little explanation about the origins of the tree,…to dolts like me,…in order?

Aside from Martin Luther deciding that he was gonna put a tree up in his house, where are the origins of such an act?

I think,…I’m not sure,…but, plain and simple, Christmas is about the birth of Christ, right?

(Hence the name Christ in the word Christmas,)

That’s it. That’s all. And for me, that’s enough. No sparks, no fanfare needed. No lights, no eggnog, no Mel Torme’, no roasted chestnuts….(but I will take some of that Peppermint Bark ice cream you got over there…)

I dunno.

Joseph and Mary just got married,…right? I don’t think it was in the plans Joseph had for himself…to marry a woman who proclaimed she was a virgin while simultaneously sportin’ a baby bump. I know Joseph had to be tryin’ to come up with a reason to divorce Mary. I know I would be….but the reason was as plain as the bulge on her belly.

He was not without just cause, mind you,…but then the angel came to him while he was asleep….and loused everything up.

“Joseph!,…wake up!,…while still maintaining your sleep! I am the angel of the Lord and you shall listen to what I have to say!…while you steadfastly maintain your slumber….like you did in math class when you were a kid. Listen to me, Joseph. Mary is a good woman. The bestest of the best. She’ll make a fine ol’ wife for you, my good man. She didn’t go steppin’ out on you, Joseph…. I know it looks that way. Believe you me, I REALLY know it looks that way, man,…but the child she is bearing is the Son of God. Don’t worry about a thing. Name him Jesus…. Ciao.”

Joseph wakes up and begins to rub the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He thinks to himself,

“Ya know,…I really don’t need this crap right now.”

Caesar Augustus then decreed that he had to count everyone on earth (for whatever reason),…so he made them go and be counted.

Joseph then sighed and thought to himself,

“This is total bull****, man”

Joseph had to take Mary and go get counted. She was due. They loaded up and headed towards Bethlehem,…because that was home base due to the fact that Joseph was of the lineage of David.

Think about that journey. They were probably fightin’ all the way there. Mary getting’ that plum spot on top of the ass while Joseph was havin’ to pull it behind him. Getting’ lost because of construction,…and losin’ valuable time on top of it…all because some douche said they had to be counted.

Then Mary says,

“Joe, baby?….ummm, Joe, baby?…. I think it might be time”.

Joseph pauses. He turns and looks at his wife in disbelief.

“Unbelievable”, he thinks to himself, “totally un-freakin’-believable,…she’s gonna drop that kid now?,…freakin’ unbelievable, man…for Caesar’ssake, Mary, gimme a freakin’ break, babe”.

Joseph then begins to look for a place to stay. No vacancy signs are everywhere. No McDonald’s, Waffle Houses or I-HOP’s for as far as the eye can see….and all the gas stations were closed due to the impending holiday,… the weather is crappy. Mary is miserable and Joseph is thinkin’ that this is a fine how-do-you-do from the Creator of the universe….

Joseph looks to Heaven and mutters to God, “You promised you’d be here, man”.

But then he is taken with his pretty wife’s face. She is in pain…and he loses sight of the fact that this was a Divine deal to begin with. It was just him and her now. That’s all there was. He feels like that’s all there ever was. Whatever was told to him from the angel became a thing of the past. A fancy of the imagination,…because there was obviously no one present now ‘cept him and her,…and the kid.

She hurts and he begins to hurt for her. He simply wants to make her pain go away. He stops and lets her rest from the movement of the donkey. As she rests, he begins to rifle through his pockets until he produces a small bag of miniature pretzels that he had stashed in there before they left the house. He offers her some. She shakes her head no and says,

“No,…thanks,..really not hungry right now, Joe. Thanks, though…you eat ‘em”.

He stands for a moment, silently munching pretzels from a tiny bag.

He covers her with some of his clothes and kisses her on the forehead, in a vain attempt to stop her tears,… and then they continue on. They were on a road, after all, and there was no place for them to stop. Thieves tended to line the roadside and lay in wait for such as these. Easy marks who have no real defense and their youthfulness more than betrayed the fact that they were probably not worldly wise.

It is a road traversed in silence. Just the sound of the donkey’s footsteps in the dirt and Joseph and Mary’s labored breath. No talking. No laughing. They were alone in the very literal sense of the word. Joseph’s hands become calloused and sore from the donkey pulling one way and another. Mary tries,… prays…for stillness.

The labor intensifies.

They continue to walk in the cold stillness of the night. Nothing more is said. Mary begins to grow light-headed as they step into the outskirts of town.

There was an inn on the side of the road. The blue neon sign said “Vacancy”,…for a brief moment,…until the proprietor flipped on the contrasting red “NO” sign….as the six Parker kids clamored out of the wood-panelled station wagon that was parked in the front of the lodge….they then, not using their “indoor voices”, began running and yelling and screaming down the front of building, with little or no regard to the tenants who might have been sleeping there.

Joseph scratched his head as he drank the rest of the pretzel powder out of the tiny bag.

“Hey, Mary?…I’m gonna see if they could hook us up. I mean, what the heck do we got to lose? Don’t say anything. Let me do the talkin’”

Mary, her head resting on the mane of the donkey while looking really pale and ill, says,

“I won’t. Just make sure you show them your triple A card because we don’t want to get finagled into some “user” fees…..and make sure you tell them that we only need it for the night. I don’t want them to run the credit card for another day….and only take one of the card keys and make sure that they don’t make another one because your credit card information is on that card….and make sure that the room isn’t by those kids,…”

Her voice trailed off as Joseph began walking towards the front door. He opened the door and a jingle bell sounded to announce his arrival.

A man in a turban stepped out of the back room. CNN was blaring from the sitting lounge to the right of the desk. A table stocked with bagels and cookies stood next to a large brochure display stand that contained fancy brochures of all the neat sites to see in “Amazing Bethlehem!”

Joseph began to speak.

“I know I just saw your light go on and all,…but my wife is about to have a baby and we were wondering if you could help us out. We hoofed it all the way from Nazareth.”

Joseph then pulled a twenty out and subtly flashed it for the proprietor to see,…without bein’ overly anxious,…letting the sight of cash do the talkin’.

The turbaned man just shrugged his shoulders and declared,

“I wish I could. We’re packed to the gills. There’s not a room to be had within twenty miles. If you woulda called and placed a reservation, I coulda held the room until midnight,…but you gotta bear in mind that it’s Christmas Eve. What can I do here?”

Joseph began to plead with the man.

“C’mon, man,…ain’t you gotta garage or somethin’? We’re dyin’ here. What about that feeding stable back there? Can we stay there?”

The man responded, “Well,…seein’ how it’s Christmas Eve and all,…yeah, you can stay back there. I won’t even charge ya”

Joseph thanked the man profusely and retreated to tell Mary the good news. Mary, excited at the prospect of stretchin’ her feet out, breathed a sigh of relief and asked Joseph if he had any more of those pretzels. Joseph pretended not to hear her.

As they rounded the corner to the stables, Joseph paused and looked out over the horizon. Bethlehem was pretty this night,…with all the houses that were intermittently lit up with brightly colored lights that flashed and twinkled in the dark.

Quietly, he turned and led Mary and the donkey to a dark, abandoned stable….the three of them alone once again.


What God meant when He said,

“Don’t you kids make me come down there!…”


“Switchboard Susan, can we be friends?
After six and on weekends!…”

Nick Lowe
Switchboard Susan

Few people know that I, scabiesoftherat, am an avid jig-saw puzzle enthusiast. Even fewer people know that my phone officially died today.


I have to admit, I didn’t see this coming. Once the stark reality of the situation set in, I immediately felt the haunting pangs of withdrawl. I got the sweats and the chills at the same time. I got the cramps real hard-like. My vision kept going out of focus and couldn’t get enough candy into my being fast enough.


I was officially alone….adrift in this mad world like a cub scout in the woods without a Swiss Army knife. My flashlight and calculator were gone. My camera was gone. My film-editing software was gone. My app that allows me to watch a webcam of Andy Warhol’s grave (24/7) was gone…all gone in an instant! I sat alone at lunch today…shunned by those with phones who sat cackling while playing trivia and listening to the Cavs (led by LeBrad Jones).

I went out to my car and began to read The Catcher In The Rye again….I’m surrounded by a bunch of “phonies”. Well, I’m NOT a “phonie”….at least, not until tomorrow when I get to the AT&T store….then I should be a “phonie” again…



“I went away a small man,
But I’ll come home a tall man,
Then what a pretty bride you’ll be…

I’ll be a big man in town….”

The Four Seasons
Big Man In Town

The pot-hole situation is getting quite out of hand.


You might think this is a merely annoyance, but it has ramifications that stretch far and wide,…especially if you own a small or mid-size car like I do.

The fact remains. We pay taxes. Other people pay taxes if they simply work in this city. There is a monetary flow.

…but we just can’t seem to find the resources to fix the common pot-hole, can we? We can consult out phones to help us determine exactly where we are on the face of the planet, but we just can’t find that cure for the common pot-hole.

It’s a big deal too. We only curse them when we try and maneuver between them. After we get out of our vehicles, we forget about them, don’t we?

Well, I’m not forgetting about them! If the city can come around and tell me to fix a crack in my sidewalk, I should be able to tell them to fix the million plus pot-holes that adorn the streets I have to drive on. It’s only fair, ain’t it?…and if they fine me, I should be able to fine them!

I really hate local politics and red tape. It ticks me off. They can micro-manage and nickel and dime a person to death but there is absolutely no accountability when it comes to things of a public nature which are in the best interest of the public at large!

My patience has left me. My hands are trembling like the front end of my car does when I drive down the street. I have nothing left.

This type of blatant malfeasance shall not go un-challenged! I shall protest at city hall!

…someday. Maybe not today, of course. (I plan to sleep in tomorrow…that’s the beauty of second shift. Sleep as long as you want and then watch TV for an hour before you get out of bed. Then get your slippers and sweatshirt on before you go to the bathroom….while you step over the dog,..who sleeps until one pm.)

But they will curse my name when I get some motivation!!

(Just not on a Tuesday, that’s all. Maybe on Thursday…I’ll think about it.)

“Money, I don’t have any,
I’m down to my last penny,…”


“Hush, Hush,
Keep it down now,
Voices carry….”

‘Til Tuesday
Voices Carry


I suffered from rather violent strain of virus earlier in the week. It’s all good now. It’s all gone.

But it also left a rather remarkable side-effect in it’s wake. It appears that my voice has vanished due to it. When I go to speak, nothing comes out. I have been struck dumb by this rogue intruder of my physiological being.

Can’t help it. Nothing comes out. My voice is gone.

I couldn’t help but be initially amused by this. I’ve never been dumb-struck,…but I have been. Can’t speak a freakin’ word here.

In this age of email, texting and self-service, I began to wonder how much I need my voice at all. Do I even need a voice?

I decided, since this is the first time this has happened, that I would use this instance to make a mental note as to how much I actually use my voice during the course of a normal day.

Since I can’t talk, I knew it would be easy.

I let the dogs out. The sound of the back door opening was enough to get them running. I had to say nothing. I went into a bodega and bought something. I didn’t even have to open my mouth. I got gas. Self-serve. No words spoken.

My boss came in and asked about 6. I rasped out, “Pratt”. One word. He understood and went on his merry way.

The guy I worked with asked how I was feeling. I rasped out, “Can’t speak”. He left it at that and then briefed me as to what was going on.

I sent a few texts, I sent a couple of emails.

Aside from those three words, I realized that I don’t need my voice at all….and that was kinda sad. The realization that my spoken words remain inconsequential.

…But, later, in the quietness and stillness of my rat’s nest of an office, I stood up and belted (rasped) it out….

“She’s precocious and she knows just,
What it takes to make a pro blush,
She got Greta Garbo stand off sighs,
She’s got Bette Davis eyes….”


“Sometimes it’s hard to believe,
That you’re never coming back to me.
I’ve had this dream that you’d always be by my side.
Oh, I could have died.

But now I see that you’re so happy.
And ooh, it just sets me free.
And I’d like to see,
Us as good of friends,
As we used to be,….”

Wilson Phillips
You’re In Love

I had to make the move today. It had to be done. I hate starting over but it’s a fact of life. It happens to the best of us, I guess.

I had to change the pass-codes on all of my devices today. I couldn’t bear typing in that same four-digit number again. Today was the day that it had to end.

I might miss 7734 in the future. I don’t know. The number has served me well since it’s been with me. It’s nothing against the number itself, of course. It’s just that the chemistry between us has grown stagnant in recent days. It was always there for me when I needed it….like when I would be standing in a checkout and there would be someone taking their good sweet time in front of me. 7734 was always there to help open up the wonders of electronic connectivity to the world that was just beyond where I currently stood.

It’s not 7734. It’s me and my selfishness that is to blame. I know this. But it’s better to have been served by 7734 than not at all! I would’ve missed so much of the world had it not been for 7734

I loved 7734.


There were also those great instances in which 7734 would actually let me by-pass itself. It gave me the freedom to soar without choking me with inane legalities. If I ever wanted to use the calculator or the camera on the fly, 7734 was always fine with that. If I had to check under the hood on a rainy night, 7734 was there with the flashlight. That number always knew what was important and what wasn’t.

7734 always knew what was best for me.

If I wanted to access my personal information, it made sure I had it’s proper sequence before I did….and that’s ok. I trusted 7734 to always look out for my best interests all the time. 7734 always made damn sure I had it’s number before it would let me flit Higgledy-Piggledy onto Facebook, YouTube and even this blog you’re now currently reading….providing that you even got this far into this post.

(Which, by now, is pretty much a miracle in and of itself…..T’a’int it?)

I loved 7734….but I had to move on. Our relationship had become somewhat trite and banal. It was time for a change. I’m the bad guy in this scenario. I don’t deny it. I just had to walk away. Some of you may call me a coward,…I suppose I deserve that.


“Para bailar La Bamba,
Se necessita una poca de gracia,
Una poca de gracia,
Para mi, para ti, ay arriba, ay arriba,
Ay, arriba arriba,
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere,…”

Ritchie Valens
La Bamba

Ya know, friends? We have this little thing here called “making a run for the border”. It seems to be the cogent thing to do now-a-days. Everyone’s doing it. They’re running for the border. Unfortunately, they’re running for our border and not theirs.

Be that as it may. I decided to run for the border today. I did. I don’t do it often. I don’t do it lightly,….but today, on October 23, 2014, I made a run for the border.

I bought a 12 pack of soft tacos from Taco Bell. I got the mild sauce and Salsa Verde as the compliments to the tacos,…(the soft tacos, I mean. I can’t do the crunchy ones. I simply do not like corn tortillas. They hurt my teeth.)


I picked them up on the way to work. The box was as heavy as a small turkey.

As I drove to work, I wondered to myself as to the storage of these soft tacos.

I looked at the box. It looked at me. I knew I was going to have to transfer them to a non-descript form of packaging so as to guarantee it wouldn’t be pilfered from. I decided on a plain brown paper bag that was stapled 17 times lest some ne’er’do’well decide they would accost my coveted soft tacos.

I put a skull and cross-bones on the plain brown paper bag. I then wrote the word “poison” on it.


That seemed to do the trick. The soft tacos were intact at the end of the night when I went to go and get them. The world was as right as rain.

I ate four at work. I’m about to have four right now. That leaves me three for tomorrow morning.


(four plus four plus three,….)

WAIT A MINUTE!!! That ain’t right! Four plus four plus three,….equals eleven!



“All Alone, I Sit Home By The Phone,
Waiting For You, Baby.
Through The Years,
How Can You Stand To Hear,
My Pleading For You Dear?
You Know I’m Crying Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh….”

Paul McCartney/Michael Jackson
Say, Say, Say.

The time is getting late. I have nothing to say because I’m in a panic to get to bed. I can’t get to bed because I feel like I have something to say. Even though I have nothing to say, I feel like I can’t get to bed until I say something. There’s just nothing to say. I want to say something but I don’t feel like it’s the right thing to say. If I said what I wanted to, I’m afraid I would regret it and I would regret the things I say. But words not said are words said in haste.

Like,…ummm,…Paul McCartney actually recorded with Michael Jackson? (You gotta be kidding me!? Really!? Good heavens….where have I been?…just take me out behind the garage and shoot me now!…)


“The grocery store’s the super mart,
uh huh
Little girls still break their hearts,
uh huh
And men still keep on marching off to war,
Electrically they keep a baseball score,…”

The Beat Goes On
Sonny And Cher

‘Tis the ending of another banal 7 day week. Nothing portends evil like the waking moment of a clammy and cold October Monday morning,…but, alas, that is a mere two days away and I have less on my plate tonight then I did when I started this odyssey in the early afternoon hours of this particular day.

I had to run to the bank and was forced to tarry there (far longer than I wanted to) due to the fact that it took four tellers to attend to the man that was parked outside in the drive-through,….no doubt attending to multiple (and possibly questionable) transactions from the comfort and safety of his own vehicle.

I was patently ignored. The man who actually got out of his vehicle and took the time to walk into said bank,…was, indeed, put on hold in favor of the ne’er-do-well who thought it perfectly ok to not leave his vehicle whilst conducting MULTIPLE transactions.

After my business there was complete, I motored over to my other bank so as to withdraw some farthings that might be needed during the course of this fine autumnal evening.

I withdrew the 20 bucks from the ATM and went on my way.

Has my life really sunk to this? Go to the bank, pay bills, go get a 20 spot that I can’t afford and then get a cheap sandwich to lunch upon while I work my increasingly boring job?

That’s all fine and good. I don’t care. I pay the bills and keep food on the table. I should be grateful for that,…not being in the red and all,…it’s just the dashed balmy-ness of it all.

I will do something crazy here and just take a random picture of something. How’s that?


My Paul McCartney bass laying on dirty socks and underwear near the dresser in my room. That was pretty exciting, wasn’t it? (I actually left it there because I will be recording a soundtrack for a movie on Sunday during the Steelers/Browns game.)

I did a list of ailments this week. (I bet you’re glad your reading this post, aren’t you?) I have determined that my left forefinger hurts sometimes and that my jaw pops. The jaw has never done that before. The finger comes and goes,…but the jaw has never done that before. It only pops at work. Not when I get home. I have to wonder if it’s stress or something. It kinda hurts when it does that….I don’t know.

I think the root of the problem is that I miss the 1970s. I am not old. I’m just nostalgic. I love nostalgia…but that’s for another post, I suppose.

Nothing like that Farrah Fawcett poster though.


Beyonce has nothing on her. Beyonce struts her ass all over the stage and then lights up the word “Feminist”.





Yeah, right. Really?

Gwenyth Paltrow just cooed to Obama that he was “so handsome that she can’t speak properly”.


Ok. Now how many of you think I’m a boring old fart because I miss the 70’s?


“The King is gone,
but he’s not forgotten,
This is the story,
of a Johnny Rotten.
It’s better to burn out
than it is to rust.
The King is gone,
but he’s not forgotten….”

Neil Young
Out Of The Blue (And Into The Black)

Totally bored tonight. I don’t know why. I had plenty of things to do. I think it’s just this Ebola thing. It makes me tired for some reason. It’s like mono. You think you got it but what’s really happening is your just really bored.

Spent the day cutting grass. I hate that. There’s no sense in it. You cut grass only to cut it again next week. Makes me wanna blow my brains out.

I dunno.

Just depressed today I guess. There’s just nothing going on.


“We gotta install microwave ovens,
Custom kitchens deliveries.
We gotta move these refrigerators,
We gotta move these colour TV’s….”

Dire Straits
Money For Nothing

So, I am getting two brand spanking new credit cards this week. Neither one has a zero balance, of course. Just two new credit cards that assimilate into my already active accounts.

Why, you ask?

Because some jackanapes in some banana republic hacked into the computer system of a store that I would frequent to buy various plumbing and household items! The bastards broke the security wall for The Home Depot! These pirates apparently have access to all the information used when I procured my cards in the first place… the banks, being johnnies-on-the-spot, are issuing me new cards to replace my old ones.

But that begs the question,….are my new cards going to assimilate with my existing accounts? I don’t know. I can still log in to online banking and stuff,….but they don’t ask for the card NUMBER when you do that. Can I still write checks on that account? The mind boggles. I mean, it’s a totally different number now,….or is that new number a “shadow” number? Like a stealth number that, when entered, the machine will actually direct it to the proverbial Bat-Cave of my hidden account.


It also begs the question, who’s paying the banks for the gazillion re-issues of credit/debit cards to the hapless owners of said? That’s a lot of labor on their part, ain’t it? Narrowing down each card holder that used their card to buy 15 cents worth of screws at Home Depot. I would think that Home Depot would be tagged with the bill for that….but are they? Who knows?!

For all the stupid things that have recently happened in our country, this is just the icing on the cake.

I heard today that Jimmy Johns Sandwich Shop also got hacked. With each new hack, is there yet another reissuing of the card that you just got? With each new hack, do you really get another card? If I went to Home Depot and used my old credit card,…then went to lunch at Jimmy Johns,…as I have been known to do,…do I get one new card because of both of them or do I get two new cards because Jimmy Johns and Home Depot are separate entities?

I can’t seem to wrap my head around this….

Either way, they’re both new cards. And you know what that means. A nice, smooth swipe.



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