November 17, 2016

Yesteryear
One year ago today: November 17, 2015, must have been a long day.
Five years ago today: November 17, 2011, friendly, handsome, approachable.
Nine years ago today: November 17, 2007, mouthy, smokes heavily.
Random years ago today: November 17, 1984, Delhi, India.

MORNING
           Here’s the bird. Three days in the fridge and it was not cooperating. So I read the directions and hauled out my biggest pot. It says four hours, but it must have softened up a little in the fridge. So let’s us give it till nightfall and into the fridge overnight since if I cook it today, that would be over six hours time concerning this naked bird. Tomorrow is good enough. While today is not officially my birthday, this is when I usually celebrate it. Now, gals, I’m officially old. Don’t laugh, I may be single but there are no cats in my kitchen.

           My gospel station loves CBS and I’ll tell you what is strange. The Libtards made a huge stink about Trump saying he may not accept the election results. Now who is it that is not accepting it? Libtards have a penchant for doing the things they accuse other of doing, almost as if they feel they have a right to break the law to get things there own way. Then, when you experience the glorious Liberal paradise, you’ll realize how right they were. Sick bastards, from the word go.

           And about that woman who was raped in the UAE or some other place she didn’t belong. She faces lashing and jail time for “extramarital sex”, you know, the kind the Arabs deny in their own country but practice in Thailand. First, I want to see what she looks like, then I want to see what she was wearing at the time of the attack. There cannot be a white woman alive to day who is not fully aware of the desperate depravity of certain repressed ideologies. What was she even doing in over there, and don’t hand us that crap that she’s got the right. Nobody has the right to be stupid.
           See, I’m in rare form this morning. I’ve got a sore throat, sore shoulders, a runny nose, and my left ear is blocked. You want I should be cheerful, too? While rasslin’ with that turkey, I ran a DVD movie about some tomboy who enters a beauty pageant. The contests all start off based on beauty but too quickly begin selecting “representative” contestants. The half-Japanese from Hawaii, the light-skinned negress from California, the non-blonde from New Jersey. Alwasy the agenda that the winner cannot be a wholesome young girl, but rather a miniature woman.
           I did get a laugh listening to their answers of what is a perfect date. The constant theme was the man who takes them on an expensive romantic outing without any hint or mention of sex. The acting on that issue was so believable it got scary. And these women, who spend six hours a day getting “beautiful”, grumble that nobody will take them seriously. Ya think?

Wiki picture of the day.
$83,200 per night. (Geneva, Switzerland.)
NOON
           I’m now at page 300 of “The Name of the Rose” and I know more about ancient Catholicism than I ever wanted to know. I still haven’t figured out the names they use instead of telling time, but I gather vespers means just before supper. Everybody likes vespers but I’ll bet they hate the muttonhead that came up with the praying part. Adso is still pining over the village girl that “bartered her flesh” just because she was, like, hungry.
           Nor was I surprised to learn many monks got religion because the food was good. Join the monastery, see the world. It’s easy enough to see the parallels with the feudal system, where each fief strove to independently produce all it’s needs and just enough surplus to take to town once a year for a few extras.

           Our budding priest goes for a walk and inadvertently talks about several topics which I’ll maybe pursue. He knows his farming and animals. He mentions a King Garamant who was rescued by two hundred loyal dogs. And how plow animals will go back to the barn themselves long before you know it is going to rain. Horses will run faster if they can smell clover and oxen learn to prefer working the plow, waiting in the morning to be harnessed.
           There are long passages on the Pope being corrupt. Some are suspected of being Jewish, all are involved in scandals, and there was a ripe business going on with the money collected to finance the Crusades. The fine for a priest committing bestiality is two hundred gold pieces, but if committed only on “youths and animals” and not with females, the fine is reduced by half.

           As things stand, there have been three murders and in each case the body was moved after death. The Popes men are beginning to arrive, and with them the danger of the Abbot losing control of the monastery if he doesn’t catch the bad guy. The only clue is one of the murder victims scribbled some notes on parchment from a book that everybody says is not in the library. The book’s called something like “Out of Africa”. Sorry, Tyrone, in this case they mean Greeks in Alexandria.

           [Author's note: it means more like the "end of Africa", referring to the northern end. Interesting, because they didn't know there was a southern end yet.]

           One unsavory aspect of the book is the long segments where the protagonist reasons out things like camel evolution and statue size. The astute reader detects how getting too much religion warps judgment away from fact and, ostensibly, toward “good”. There is a constant impetus pushing the theory that older people are full of sage advice that any look around you says is bunk. The various monks see themselves as individuals but are in point of fact the same stereotypical cranks that authors today serve up.
           In real life, talking in riddles and circles does not make anyone mysterious. People who do it become your enemy when you see right through them. Ask my brothers. But in this plot, and in literature in general, such characters are disgustingly enduring. Just put the monk, Salvatore, who pretends to be insane, on the rack and in two minutes, his mind will clear remarkably and he’ll tell you who the murderer is. As it stands, it’s going to take another 234 pages.

AFTERNOON
           Make that late afternoon, you can see the shadows catching up on me. The ladder is leaning against the old tree stump, the top of the cut is 8’-6” off the ground. The average circumference is between 66 and 67 inches. It has been treated with an insecticide and green paint on the top to keep out the bugs. I have not decided what to do with it yet.

           There are five very large logs left on the ground, you can see the biggest on rather clearly. I don’t own a saw that can slice it in one cut. In the foreground are the varnished sawhorses with a window screen that needs repair. It’s got some slim strips of lumber that I have no idea where to buy it. The woodpeckers are gone for sure when the tree was toppled. And the woodpile on the right grows larger over time.
           Say, do you need any firewood? I can varnish it for you.

           I’m cutting a few inches of the big log away each day. It is so solid, I cannot yet turn it over, so I have to straddle the log to cut away a slice at a time. The cut pieces remind me of something but I can’t put my finger on it. It will hit me. I mean the big log beside the ladder. I can’t even roll it over with a lever. My guess is 400 to 450 pounds. Solid chokecherry wood.
           This is the area I was planning to put the small workshop. However, I need to know more about the warning that overhanging limbs will corrode away a roof. This spot will always have at least some tree limbs projecting over the structure. We feudal land barons can be very protective of our fiefdoms.

NIGHT
           My vast collection of unwatched DVD videos contains some real nuggets but once in a while mistakes happen. And I’ll tell you which old actor is overrated. Steve McQueen. The guy cannot act. I found a collection of episodes from his TV western, “Wanted: Dead or Alive”. Gag me with a spoon. “Drop your gun or one of us will be working a shovel and I don’t think it’s gonna be me.”

           His stage name is Josh and he gives his bounty money to charity. All the towns he rides into have the same hotel with a different sign on front. And the towns, “High Mesa” let’s say I’m beginning to suspect were Clint Eastwood got some of his material. Meanwhile, I see I’ve made too much turkey stuffing. Better safe than sorry, I kind of baked it dry in the toaster oven.

           Into the third day, the Battle of the Turkeys continues. I found the giblet things in what the instructions called the “other body cavity”. I keep forgetting to find out how to prepare these giblets, so Zeke gets them. The photo above shows that I do, in fact, own a pot big enough to contain a 9.81 pound turkey. Why, doesn’t every guy my age? What? Well, that’s your problem lady, you’ve been dating guys who don’t have a pot large enough to boil motorcycle parts.
           As a matter of fact, this turkey is enough of a project for me to bake it in isolation, that is, I am not making any of the trimmings. I could, there is a three hour spell in the oven, but I promised myself years ago I would learn to cook large objects. I want to focus and do it right or learn the reason why. This turkey, maybe small by some standard, is the biggest lump of food I’ve ever cooked in one piece.

           That includes meals for six to eight boy scouts. Over an open campfire. But it was lots of small food. Potatoes, or chili, lots of scrambled eggs, lard biscuits. Even the four pound bags of ground beef were nothing like handling this bird. But I can see now it might be quite an experience to roast one of these on a spit. The instructions said to finish the leftover turkey within three days. Oh goodie, does that mean they will come over and help me with that? Maybe they’d like me to varnish it for them.
           It also said to pat the turkey with paper towels. I did, even said, “Nice turkey, nice turkey.” And to cover the breast with tinfoil when two-thirds done. I haven’t done anything like that since I was married. Now I gotta study turkey anatomy?

ADDENDUM
           Shown here is the missing flash drive from Monday. I recharged my beeper and each day when I was finished at the library, I walked around the student study groups. At noon today I got contact. Say what you want, I took one look and knew which multi-cultural little bastard had it. I, um, explained his [limited] options in ten words or less. He opened his knapsack and forked it over.

           The sensitive information on the drive is passworded, but there was still a lot of hours work on the other files. A quick check shows the data is complete. I have no way of knowing if he made a copy, but if he did chances are he would not have risked carrying it back to the scene. Plainly, the Millennial brat didn’t know what key tag was. So much for the greatest generation.

           I had the radio working in the yard and could listen in on the Libtards making asses of themselves. I often wondered why Ann Coulter bothers with these talk shows. By now she knows which ones are bozos. It’s down to a pattern. She quotes some statistics or facts that the host and other guests are obligated to reject or else risk being tarred with their own brushes. Instead of refuting the facts, out comes the “ist” words. Racist, sexist, you know the drill. And it is like water off a duck’s back to Coulter.
           Funny these Liberals. When they can’t back up their claims, they start talking about “feelings”. I got this from the on-line comments that others see this pattern as well. Entrenched idiots like Whoopi Goldberg, who often don’t even read the book being discussed, launches in with endless gab about her “feelings”. Whoopi, you insipid nitwit, I think the world is aware that Ann Coulter doesn’t have any clue what it “feels” like to be a crybaby balding fat ugly old black ass. So would you quit with the feelings angle? This is a talk show, if you want to talk feelings, call your psychiatrist.
           How do I know Goldberg has a psychiatrist? Because nobody gets as unbalanced as Goldberg stays out of the lulu hut without some brand of professional therapy.

           Another bucket-head who should pack it in is that German goof who chairs the European Union meetings. The dunce who tries to out-talk Nigel Farage. Can’t be done. My wonderment is that if you are going to pick a German to head some committee, why go out and find the stupidest fat fuck on the continent? Some kraut that’s been packing away the schnitzel by the hogshead. He doesn’t get it, every time he accuses Farage of something “wrong” he gets it flung back in his face how he did the same many times over.
           I think his name is Martin Shultz, a German name that roughly translates as "John Smith". Not the fastest Audi on the autobahn.


Last Laugh

++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Return Home
++++++++++++++++++++++++++