One year ago today: July 19, 2016, a generic day.
Five years ago today: July 19, 2012, . . . fewer than Delaware.
Nine years ago today: July 19, 2008, stringing together urban legends.
Random years ago today: July 19, 2009, Millie vs. the chicken.
Headliner is food, nothing keeps blog readership up like food, except maybe murder, sex, and Trump rants. But if you want to sink that low, check out Time magazine these days. This is my semi-famous eight egg quiche. I reject the tale from the trailer court that some people make it with three or four eggs. At that point, you are not eating quiche. This one is cheese and onion, I like my ham on the side. I made a pork roast in the same oven, be nice and if nothing else comes along today, I’ll get you a photo of that, too.
That’s like 8,600 hours per year that somebody else has to mind the shop. Fortunately, we have an unlimited supply of these top guns, or do we? Those North Koreans never eat, so it could be they don’t sleep, either. I know what I’m like if I don’t get three squares and a siesta so I don’t think we can afford to let down our guard. I saw the backlash of Ann Coulter getting bumped from her airline seat, and I’m on her side. The libtard media says she is over-reacting, but I feel she is just giving voice to a problem that, without her celebrity status, the airlines (and Amtrak) have otherwise continue to ignore the way they have.
I’ve warned for years how these faceless corporations and bureaucrats will get away with aggravation only up to the time they pull their stunts on somebody important. It serves them right and no, issuing an official policy statement or apology doesn’t work. They’ll actually have to do something besides what they please. Damn rights I’m with Ann on this one. For that matter, I’d like to be on the very seat next to her. To talk, you know, policy, as only Ann and I could.
Venezulan poodle moth.
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Today’s movie is a repeat. “You Don’t Mess With The Zohan”, which has movie extras you wouldn’t believe, although you’d think that is one category of teen who would have an aversion to tatoos. Wrong. But they make up for it in so many other ways. I wouldn’t doubt if some guys watch Zohan flicks just to see movies that show slim single white girls again. Other guys, I mean. I watch them because based on the available evidence, there are no fat ugly women in Israel. At least not on the beaches. Not when Zohan is around.
Then JZ calls to say he’s changed the schedule, he won’t be here until the 28th or so. Too bad, I was going to plan the floor work around him. Now he’ll miss that as well. Remind me to go check the river, since he likes to swim. And the Florida Peace River was hardly swimmable last time I smelled it. You won’t get me to even wade into cold water. It cramps my legs something fierce. I’ll stay by the fire, cooking lunch, thank you. Say, that reminds me to put on a roast. Can’t work on an empty tummy. Unless you are Korean.
Now, I have this theory that the number of fat people in a country is proportional to the amount of foreign aid we ship them. I don’t have access to the precise statistics, but you can do an impromptu survey of your own by going online for the dollar amounts and paying closer attention to the backgrounds of international news broadcasts. That’s only a guess since I don’t go near TV news, but the general concept is sound. So by rights, the fattest people in the world should be in Israel, right?
Maybe a better predictor would be British foreign aid. That’s whom the Americans pattern their allotments on, see, except the Brits are far less embarrassed by how little of their money actually reaches those who need it. The philosophy that confirmation and oversight of the money is an interference with the receiving country’s politics is the precise species of contradiction that can handily co-exist in the English mind. After all, they are the ones that came up with the Value Added Tax, primogeniture, and still carry as much guilt over colonialism as we do on slavery.
Better yet, why don’t you watch some on-line video of Nigel Farage attacking the whole concept of foreign aid. He’s still active after Brexit since the ruling class thinks they can fool the electorate by pulling out of the European Union on paper but not in fact. To keep in the headlines, he should tackle something like the futility of foreign aid, those trillions of dollars that “disappear down foreign rat-holes”. He’s the figurehead that advocates canceling the foreign aid but also removing the trade barriers with those countries. Trade, not aid. Smart dude.
“If you believe everything you read
it is better not to read.”
~ Japanese proverb.
It rained or looked like rain all afternoon, so the second top story is the pork roast. Here’s the picture I promised. The secret ingredient is pepper. While I like baking and roasting, the fact is these too much food and it either gets frozen or I lack variety. That might not be a factor for people who eat pizza six times a week, but with my diet restrictions, I already eat so much chicken the feral cats watch when I’m raking leaves.
I also enjoy watching this type of video, building wagon wheels. These guys can build wheels so big you need a tractor to move them. But I can’t even peel up my old oak floor without damaging the lumber. One just knows there is a corporation behind all this.
That was Fred on the phone. By the way, I also get an upsurge in junk mail as well as telemarketing calls after I visited my old cardiologist, but if I mentioned that as well, he’d claim it was the tooth fairy. Fred called about an iPhone, which I do not own and consider to be an overpriced toy. Too big for a phone, too small for a computer, but a marketing master-stroke. How do you download pictures off it? I could not answer his question, but advised him to Google for the answer. Face it gang, I don’t know how to get a picture off an iPhone, but I would try emailing it to myself as an attachment. It can’t be that complicated if millennials can do it.
ADDENDUM
Searching for new material, I sorted through the entire song list from my five-piece group from just over two years ago. The band that played out once every 3.6 months at best. Not one song on that list was suitable for what I do today. A lot of it was already considered band “filler music” when I was fourteen. And there were 61 songs on that list, such as “Melissa” and “How Sweet It Is”. Elevator music gone bad. Change-the-station music.
The one line that makes any sense is when somebody says if you want to date, you’ve got to go back to being in 11th Grade again, where you do what you have to. I’m okay with that because I knew by that time this was the best ratio of unattached, inexperienced, curious, sexy women that all men would ever experience in our lives. I’ve always felt the motivation to get rich is for men who try to duplicate that situation, only to find you can’t officially buy the most important ingredient: inexperience. This seems to have escaped others. Careful, if you don’t realize how conniving women can be about marriage while openly pretending to just want a good time, this movie might annoy you.
Another curiosity, not just in the movie, is the constant question of where to meet up. I go with the supermodel, you meet people everywhere. But there is no specific category of place to go and meet winners. Yes, I go to the pub, but I take a pen and paper with me—I know I’m not likely to meet any babes, but if I do, I’ll adroitly turn the situation around. I joke about reading women’s magazines to find out where they say to meet men because you don’t want that type of woman. Finding the right kind of woman is completely random, it is better to have something to offer than to try finding some mystical land of easy pickings as this movie suggests.
The one realistic portrayal of the movie is how women overcomplicate the entire process. Women talk about walking on the beach and watching the stars—but just you try that instead of dinner on the first date. You, I mean, because I’ve taken women to libraries and computer shows and I get away with it. That’s because I have something to offer these women, I mean. What? Well, that’s hardly my problem, is it, Ken? I’ll say it again, my problem is not meeting women. I meet women everywhere I go whether I like it or not.
I chat up every, repeat every, woman who looks like she might remotely have something going for her. Can you sing? Can you dance? Can you cook? I’d be lucky to find one who could read or write and who actually does. America is not the place to be looking for a woman who can do more than the obvious. Those ones are picked off before they turn 16. Except for Taylor, who is in a league of her own, but like all people who get anything done in life, she’s in danger of being accused of having standards that are too high.
Only the truly ignorant tell others their standards are too high. Ignorant with brains that sound like a bb rattling around inside a tuna can. Who else would tell a person who’s worked hard to better themselves to turn around and lower their values? Have you ever noticed people who say such things themselves can’t sing or dance. Because that’s all you really need to know about them.
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