Posted in Floridaborne, Humor

MIRRORING MEMORIAL

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****))))Special report((((****

To boldly glow where no ghost has glowed before.

“Harry!  Give me one of those low-fat organic berry surprise bars!”  I yelled out, straightening my perfect white t-shirt accessorized with green beads, a green belt and green shoes.

“Here ya go,” Harry said.

I glowered at him. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s that awful energy bar you love so much, but I don’t have to throw away what’s left over after you’ve only taken 2 bites.  You do want to save the environment, don’t you?” he snickered.

I took my 2 bites and held it carefully between perfectly coiffured nails, thankful his filthy hands didn’t want to touch me, either.  “Tell me again why I’m standing in Arlington Cemetery?”

“To pay your respects to those who died in battle.  You remember, the people who gave up their lives so that you could waste food and trash the constitution.”

“Hateful bastard,” I mumbled.  “Why were you assigned to me?”

“You claimed mental trauma sustained on the job after you saw a ghost,” Harry grumbled. “I’m the only person left who can survive you.”

“We’ll see about that,” I whispered.

He smiled amiably.  “This will take 5 minutes of your time and you’ll be at Dan’s barbecue extravaganza before everyone else has a chance to eat all the spare ribs.”

“He’s promised me a ride on his ATV so I can watch him run over snakes,” I said.  “That’s why I’m wearing $200 jeans instead of a $2000 dress.”

“He lives on undeveloped county roads,” Harry informed me. “Did you look it up to see if there’s an ordinance against terrorizing your neighborhood with those things?”

“Why would the illiterate savages who live there care?”  I asked.

“I live a few blocks from Dan,” he chuckled.  “You’ll be on air in 3…2…”

Holding the microphone with nails accented in forest green, I began my report. 

“I’m Shirley A. Moronass coming to you live from Arlington Cemetery.  Today we celebrate the sacrifices of men and women who gave their lives so that we may live free.”

I have to admit, the way I read the words off the teleprompter had most of my crew mesmerized.  Harry continued to record my fluff piece while the rest of the crew ran down the road as hard as their legs could carry them.

“Shirley,” a voice said behind me, followed by an ice-cold hand on my shoulder.  

I looked down where a hand should be, seeing only a white shirt.  “Harry?”

“He’s about 6 foot 2, grey hair…translucent,”  Harry said.

“Why do ghosts seem to haunt me?”  I whined.

“Because you can see us,” the ghost said.  “You’ve grown to be a shallow, shrill, shrew of a woman.”

“Who are you to…” I began, turning to face my accuser.  “Dad?”

“Dear God, even your dad doesn’t like you?”  Harry chuckled.

“He doesn’t know me,” I replied with great umbrage. “He died in the gulf war before I was born, leaving my mother to raise me and my 10-year-old brothers alone.”

“You had twin brothers?”

“Don’t remind me,” I said, rolling my eyes.  “They enlisted in the military at 18.”

“Unlike my ungrateful daughter, they served their country well,” the ghost said.

“They lived in the San Francisco’s Presidio as career military for 20 years.  They were middle-management bureaucrats working in food service.  I am a world-renown reporter!”

“Someone has to feed the troops.  It’s an honorable profession, one that doesn’t require being dressed like a prostitute.”

“I…don’t know if I can continue,’ Harry said, convulsing with laughter.  “I mean no disrespect.”

“None taken,” the ghost replied.

“I enlisted in 2005, sir,” Harry said.  

“I didn’t know you were in the military,” I said with just a hint of laughter.  “Were you in food service, too?”

 “Don’t be disrespectful,” Harry ordered. “I was one of the ground troops in Afghanistan.”

“He saved 2 men during a raid,” the ghost just had to say.

“May I ask your name, sir?”  Harry said, as if a ghost deserved his respect.

“Heeza Moronass,” he replied.  “Don’t ask, strange names are a family tradition and my wife loved all those old airplane movies.  Shirley, you remember?”

“That’s why my brothers changed their name to Sonofa Smith and Cuzeeza Smith!”

“So then…the name isn’t pronounced “Morehonest?”  Harry asked. “What does her middle initial stand for.”

“Another,” the ghost chuckled. 

“Shirley…Another…Moronass?”  Harry laughed.

By this time, the crew started meandering back.  After all, Harry and I weren’t dead from our encounter.

“I can’t stay,” the ghost said. “I have to remain vigilant and keep watching for the minions of evil.  It’s my job to run them off until I finish my penance.”

“You died in an attack,” I said.  “You were awarded a silver star for defending villagers against 4 terrorists.  You were buried here with a 21 gun salute, and my mother got a flag.  What could you possibly have to do penance for?”

The ghost hung down his head. “I was in a brothel in the midst of…shall we say…the deepest part of my pleasure when 4 men broke inside to kill the Americans.  Fortunately, I never went anywhere without a side arm.  The last one got a bullet through my head right after I’d fired the shot, but my shot took another minute to kill him.”

“How long do you have to serve penance.”

“Until Roger dies and takes my place.”

“When is the best time to visit you?”  I asked.

“Sunday morning around 9.”

“Good.  We’ll finish this conversation later,” I said, watching as his form dissipated into the air.  I yelled out to Harry, “Pack it up!  We have a barbecue to attend.”

“Some old lady terrifies you but that man doesn’t?”  Harry asked.

“He didn’t throw 2000 pounds of machinery into a tree, nor did he make me think I was sitting on a couch instead of rat poop,” I said.

“But he was your father…”

“…and my mother married the man who fought side-by-side with my father to defend a bunch of prostitutes while my mother was giving birth to me,” I said.  “Furthermore, the bullet that killed him was friendly fire.  But I suspect there’s more to it than that.   Mom and the bastard are living on the beach in a condo.  She took out an insurance policy on my father for a million dollars, and I found out later my step dad had taken one out on my father, too.”

“That can’t be the only reason you’re mad as hell,” Harry said.

Did it matter if he knew?  “I look more like my stepfather, Roger Smith.”

“You’re going after them with a vengeance,” Harry said.  “Better them than me.”

“Mom had one more daughter, a year after I was born.  I found out they left the bulk of their estate to her in their will.”

“What did they leave you?”  Harry asked.

“All the freestanding mirrors in the house,” I grumbled.  “By the time I’m through with them…”

“Tell me after it’s over with,” Harry said, rushing to the truck.

Posted in Humor

Interview with the ghost of America past

****))))Special report((((****

To boldly glow where no ghost has glowed before.

“Harry!  Give me one of those low-fat organic berry surprise bars!”  I yelled out, straightening my perfect bright yellow dress accessorized with red beads, a red belt and red shoes.

“Here ya go,” Harry said, careful not to touch my perfectly coiffured nails and salon softened hands with his filthy ones.  I took my usual 2 bites and threw the remainder back to him for disposal.

“You’ll be on air in 3…2…”

Holding the microphone with nails accented in cherry red, I began my investigative report.

“I’m here at the ruins of a family home nestled on the base of a mountain in Virginia.  Reports from the construction crews say that some old lady in a print dress and apron keeps chasing them away from this…this hovel.”

Harry pointed to a construction worker wearing a hard hat, wanting me to interview the filthy creature, but I wasn’t through showing off my outfit to the world.  I detected laughter though my earpiece and heard Harry say, “No, Mr. Rodrigues, she’s not a ghost hunter, she’s an overpaid reporter who’s too stupid to know better, but don’t tell anyone that.”

“I hear you loud and clear, Harry,” I frowned.  Harry mumbled to Rodrigues, and the guy covered in horrid pieces of nature stood across from me.  Good…this view featured my best side.

 “Mr. Rodrigues, tell us about your experience.”

“Some white woman with grey hair comes out of the house and everything goes flying,” he said, as if that sort of thing happened every day.

“What, exactly..goes flying?”  I asked patiently.

“Yesterday we lost a steam roller,” he said, as if 20 ton pieces of equipment catapult into the air every day.  “I had to climb down from that tree.”

“It has to be 100 feet tall,” I scoffed.

“Exactly 112 feet,” he said. 

“We’re walking up to a house overrun with huge pine and oak trees,” I said.  My grubby companion ran toward Harry. “Where are you going?”

“She hasn’t killed anyone yet, but no one wants to be the first to die, either.” 

I walked toward the entrance, waiting for the door to continue creaking open.  “The walls are falling down, there are no windows…how can anyone live in a place like this?”

“You came a calling to my house dressed like a clown to ask me that question?” a woman’s voice giggled.

Harry and Mr. Rodrigues inched toward me.  Then the damned fools stood behind me like I was the one who was expendable!  Somewhere in the depths of my childhood, I remembered a few of the manners mother taught me.

“May we come in?”  I asked.

“If you promise not to try and destroy anything,” she said. 

A rat scampered across a bed of rotting leaves, remnants of thickly made wallpaper stubbornly refused to lose their adherence and I said to Harry, “Looks like nature took care of that for her.”

The wallpaper began to grow like ivy around the walls, then the shiny wood floors, circular rugs, and simply beautiful wood furniture appeared.  She casually sat in a rocking chair on homemade padding sewn together by hand.  I thought about how much I could get for one in pristine condition if I sold it on Ebay.

“There’s a few things in the world you shouldn’t never believe, starting with ‘we’re the government and we’re here to help,’” she said.  “The second one is ‘I’m a reporter, I’m here to tell the truth to the world.”

“You’re one of those people!”

“As in ‘this is Germany and Jews are those people?’”

“You’re the type that think no woman should have an abortion,” I said with great umbrage.

“Not all red-blooded Americans believe you have to bring any baby in the world that’s conceived,” she said.  “Lord knows I’ve seen my share of deaths in war.  I’d call that a very, very, very late-term abortion.”

“That’s a surprise.  What about places that sell late-term abortion body parts to foreign scientists?”

“I’m against it for a different reason.  If some Hotty Toddy Richy Rich wants his genes shored up, he needs to die off.”

“That…that’s so violent!”

“If you haven’t noticed, this is a violent universe,” she said.  “Your ruby red slippers aren’t going to save you from it, Dorothy.”

“My name is Shirley, but that’s beside the point.  Aren’t the devout supposed to go forth and procreate?”  I asked with a wry grin.

“Shirley, anyone with common sense can see that we don’t need 7.5 billion people, nor do we need land developers destroying our forests to build condos for worthless people who couldn’t survive for more than 2 days without electric and water. You can’t shoot food with a TV remote.”

“Then…Let’s move on to guns.”

“A woman with those shoes isn’t going to have the common sense to carry one,” she said.

I looked down, horrified that my right shoe was scuffed!  “They’re Italian leather!  Oh, God!  They might be ruined!”

“Common sense says you wear boots in a forest,” she chuckled.  “What do you think the 2nd amendment is for?  Hunting?   No, it’s because people with no common sense can’t understand why no one with a brain wants a global socialist government.  We’re supposed to shoot the bastards who want to destroy our country and our Constitution.”

“You can start with her,”  Harry said, pointing at me.

“Mr. Rodrigues,  how did you come to this country?”  I asked.

“I walked over the border with my mother when I was 6,” he said

“So you’re an illegal,” she scolded him.

“Undocumented alien,” I told her.

“What do you think would happen if you walked over the border of any other country in the world? You don’t know?  I’ll tell you what! They’re smart enough to kill you for it.”

“Guns, violence, killing. That’s what’s wrong with the world,” I said emphatically.

“Yet you were ready to throw me under the wagon when you thought I was against abortion,” she said. “What about slavery…hell! What about people like you?”

“What?”  I laughed at her.

She pointed to my red plastic vintage necklace.  “I remember those beads.  I bought them on sale at McCrory’s for 50 cents in 1960 as a Christmas gift to my granddaughter. “

 “I doubt that,” I said with a sneer.  “I paid $20 for these.”

“You paid a fortune for cheap plastic only a child would wear?”  Her laugh was almost a cackle.  “We’ve established you are, as my granddaughter would’ve said, clueless. Let’s talk slavery.  Where do you think that dress was made?”

“Indonesia.”

“Slave labor!  You support slavery, but they’re not in your backyard so you don’t care.”

“I do not support slavery!”  I yelled at her.  “I believe in equality as greatly as I believe in saving the environment!”

“You used a limo to come here.  Your crew used a truck and equipment that needs rare elements to function.  You used more gasoline in a day than my entire town used in a month!  But that pales against what the Earth can do to itself. One super volcano explodes and the Earth is a dead zone for a hundred years.  One meteor, one solar flare…”

“I get it, but humans have to be responsible!”

“How much garbage do you throw out each week?”

“My maid does it.”

“Would you say one bag?”

“Probably. I recycle, too.”

“There are 125 million families in the USA.  If each family threw away 1 bag, that’s 125 million garbage bags a week. Where do you think it goes?  Mongolia?  It’s rotting on lands that once held lush forests.”  She stood up, announced, “This interview is over,” and disappeared.

I fell, butt first, onto the old flooring when the furniture and wallpaper crawled away.  I had to brush the rat poop, leaves and dirt off.  “Look what you’ve done!  I’ll have to throw this dress away!”

Her face appeared as a glow, her voice fading into the distance. “Throw yourself away instead.”

My witnesses refused to corroborate my story and my editor ordered a psych evaluation.  My psychiatrist ordered a test for some sort of fungus that causes hallucinations.  He recommended a holistic health clinic he runs as a side business. I feel much better now that I’ve had chelation therapy and an Immunoglobulin infusion made from 1000 plasma donors. It was well worth $75,000.

My injury and resulting mental trauma was sustained on the job, so my boss couldn’t fire me.  I’ve had three people fired for laughing at me though…workplace bullying is against the law.  To mark off the last item on my revenge list, I asked Mr. Rodrigues and Harry to meet me for drinks, my treat.

“Why didn’t you tell my editor what happened?”  I asked them.

“There’s no footage to prove it,“ Harry said.  “That guy from IASS was on the news while you were inside your haunted house.  He said it was a terrorist attack.  They arrested 3 mountain men for it and people like you want the 2nd Amendment repealed.”

“But…a ghost is doing it.”

“Do you know why Rodrigues and I have survived this long?”  Harry asked.  “No? We keep our heads low and our mouths shut when it matters the most.”

“But, you can talk to me.  We’re just having drinks…”

“…while your recorder is running,” Harry said.

They walked out, I turned off my recorder and began to wonder why people like that were allowed to live.

Posted in Floridaborne, Humor

Piled higher and deeper and in quadruplicate

Aaaarrrrguh!

It’s Wednesday?  Already?

 

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***????SPECIAL REPORT????***

If this report were any more special you could buy it at McD’s.

And I’m not clowning around!

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mcdonalds.wikia.com

 

 

Today’s  addition to the Nudge Wink reports is about working for government

Any government.

 I don’t care if it’s the USA, Canada, Russia, or Lower Sloboviya, there’s paperwork.

 

hand.jpg                                                 …and I need this filing done in an hour!

My cat and every government in the world have one thing in common:  The same mantra

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After a month back on my job, it felt like this:

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Just when I thought that paperwork and I had come to an understanding…

 

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Supershirtguy.com

 

…I was presented with the horrible truth:

 

 

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123rf.com

 

 

The people at the non-profit organization are fantastic!

It started out simple enough.  Once upon a time there were groups of parents all over the USA who wanted to give their forgotten children something to do during the day.  They relied on volunteers, bake sales and donations to run their local non-profit organizations. 

Then the state of Florida said, “We will give you money.”

pixar's The Good Dinosaur.jpg

It wasn’t much, and often didn’t come in at a reliable time.  But a group of advocates worked very, very hard to get more money and have it doled out each month, not whenever a social worker got around to doing it.

So then the state of Florida said, “We will partner with the federal government and both of us will give you money.”

People from other states heard about Florida’s windfall.  They didn’t try to get this program in their state.  Noooo.  They flocked into Florida like a cloud of vultures to benefit from the money that was supposed to be used for Floridians. 

What was meant to help 5000 people IED’d into an explosion of need that threatened to kill the program and everyone associated with it.

Instead of the state saying, “You have to live here 10 years before you’re eligible for this program,” they said…

“Let there be forms,”

And there were forms.

Then they said, “Let there be rules and regulations.”

And there were enough rules and regulations to kill off the dinosaurs.

And behold, the plan to plan to do the plan was created.

I was hired to write over 200 of these a year, get them completed before the deadlines, and send them out in quadruplicate.

Oh, but it gets bitter better.

  1. LEVEL 1:  The government generates a program and puts paperwork into rule.  It means they make laws instead of congress, which is unconstitutional.
  2. LEVEL 2:  The government subcontracts with one giant agency to monitor the entire program.  The state monitors the monitors.
  3. LEVEL 3: For the next level under that, the government hires other subcontractors to oversee ALL the subcontractors who provide direct care services to the people who are receiving services.
  4. LEVEL toilet bowl (4):   Level 3 sends Level 4 the paperwork out of which 100+ different types of forms are generated.  
  5. Why 100+ different forms?  Because the F@#&*%$ government can’t get their act together and make the 10+ agencies — whose laws we have to follow– CONSOLIDATE THEIR PAPERWORK!

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Level 1, the state & feds

Level 2, monitors

Level 3 sub monitors

 

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<—I am here….level 4

 

 

I wish it were as simplistic, but this system puts the pyramid scheme to shame.

In the scheme of things it’s a lot more like this.

 

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ladotbikeblog.wordpress.com

 

I’m somewhere near the vanishing point…I think.

Subcontractors at level 3 who haven’t done their job right will walk into my office at times, and I’m supposed to do this:

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They have learned to avoid me because my face will become indelibly paired with this:

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I know I shouldn’t be catty, but…some days I just can’t help being sar-cat-stick.

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Did I mention how hard it is to get 100 overworked, underpaid, and rarely appreciated people to get paperwork into the office at the right time…and how greatly it resembles trying to herd 100 terrified cats? 

It helps to be a professional nag armed with a healthy dose of OCD.  

The non-profit recently had an audit.  I just found out that my insistence on doing paperwork that my former boss said was unnecessary saved 2-months of payback.

I’ll be smiling about that for days.

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boredpanda.com

If you ever experience temporary insanity and think you can trust ANY government, always remember this truth:

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Really.

Posted in Floridaborne, Humor

How retirement is like eggplant

))))****SPECIAL RETORT****((((

So special, I had it coming.

For anyone in the blog-o-sphere who cares, I retired on December 1.

Oh…you already knew that?  Well excuse me for…

what was I saying?

BELCH.

Damn that Eggplant Parmesan!  Do you know how much cheese and spaghetti sauce it takes to hide the taste of grey vegetable matter?

I may be forgetful but…

    No, I don’t look like this       

I look like this hair.jpg 

And I can do this and this 

Just a wee bit of difference, wouldn’t you say?

Yes, I retired

For 2 months and 8 days.

There’s something about standing in a food line for 2 hours that screams, “This is not your finest moment!”

Eight eggplants, two cans of spaghetti sauce, a half gallon of almond milk, and a frozen chicken later, I’m looking at my sister-in-law, who has been doing the food line thing for years, and ask, “How do you cook eggplant?”

When you’re 20, you don’t consider the fact that you’ll be living on less than a 16-year-old  makes working in the fast food industry 20 hours a week.

…or that you’ll have to eat

**shudder**

eggplant!

It might’ve helped if I hadn’t cashed out my retirement plan for those Metallica tickets 25 years ago.

But, alas, I digest digress.

As fate would have it, the person taking my place did not inherit the clerical gene, nor was he well endowed with the over abundance of OCD required to keep a non-profit agency from being pay-backed into oblivion because a useless document was two days overdue.   

The phone call I received 2 months and 2 days into that financial hell called “retirement” went something like this:

World’s nicest boss, “Uh….would you…uh…do you think…could you come back to work for a few months until we can…”

Me (silently):

Then, after I finished my happy dance, I said, “Certainly.”

Will I be back at work for a month?  Seven?  The rest of my life?

I think it’s safe to say that I’ll be working for as long as they can stand to have me around.

The one good thing that came from retirement:  Writing!!!!

Unfortunately, it takes money to pay for editing.

Retirement might kill me yet, but I’d rather not have my books die with me.

Don’t be sad for the guy who tried his hand at becoming a useless bureaucrat.  He’s traveling around teaching people important stuff while I’m sitting at a desk doing this.

TASTES LIKE EGGPLANT

It’s called a win-win situation.  He gets to use his brain, I get to save money for editing and…

!!!!AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, I WILL NEVER EAT EGGPLANT AGAIN!!!!

Posted in Floridaborne, Humor, Special Report

Canada vs. the USA

 

****))))SPECIAL REPORT((((****

So special, it’s telling you what you already know.

<_><_><_><_>

Mandatory digression:

Well….I just returned home from my once-every-5-years physical.  Why the doctor’s office considers it rude to miss a physical for 4 years in a row, I’ll never know.  As punishment, they shredded my file 3 months ago and made me register as a new patient.

Filling out 20 forms with 8-font words must be the way they test your mental health.  If you can do it without having a melt-down in the waiting room, you’ve passed. 

They wanted to know my race, so I wrote: “Human.”  Then, on the 18th form, they wanted to know if I took illegal drugs or owned firearms, so I wrote:  “Are you crazy? What the hell does that have to do with a physical exam?” 

Age 13.jpg

Yeah, sure, I use bazookas as part of my upper body weight-lifting routine. That’s why I have huge muscles.

In case anyone out there is delusional enough to believe I lift anything but dogs...

 

 <–   This is me, at 13.  My upper arm strength hasn’t changed all that much.  

Canadians don’t have to worry about that sort of irrelevant nonsense; they’re too busy trying to survive their 9 month winters. 

<_><_><_><_>

In the USA, if someone robs a bank they yell:  Wallets!  Money!  Now, Mo%&$*#@^kers! 

In Canada, if someone robs a bank they say:  Your wallets and money, please.  So sorry.

Why would I believe that?  Look at the Vaulter Bandit, who chose a different bank to rob 4 times a year (on average).  In 2015, he disguised himself as a construction worker, chatted with bank security, robbed the bank at gunpoint and then said,  “Have a nice Mother’s Day,” to the employees.

If something like this happened in the US, the police wouldn’t have a nice thing to say about the  #%**$&^@d robber.  But not in Canada.

“He’s in relatively good shape. He can vault over the counter with ease. He’s very flexible.” 

I have to say that the women in Canada are tough.  The Vaulter Bandit left without any cash in 2011 when a female employee kicked him in the balls.

I have a theory:  There aren’t enough paved roads in Canada to allow a bank robber to escape anywhere meaningful.  Since the Vaulter Bandit has grey hair, he probably spent the winter in Palm Springs, California working out in a gym. That’s where most of the Canadian Snowbirds go.

He couldn’t come back to Florida and rob us, he was arrested and served time here. 

So what does he do when he can’t go south again?  He tries fleeing to Switzerland. They’re not as polite in Geneva as police are in Canada.  They actually arrested him.

People in Canada have to be polite to each other.  After all, that @$$hole next door might be one of the people helping you dig out of the snow in January.  That’s the way it was in Minnesota when I lived there, a state that might as well be part of Canada.

Hell!  Even your cats are different.

Here’s my proof.

kittens.jpeg

Canadian Cat

mindubiz.jpg

My cat

You want more proof?

I’ll begin with an up-to-date map of Canada to show why there aren’t enough paved roads for a robber to make a decent escape:

map-2006-pop-density-canada-sz01-en.gif

Canada only has 4% of their roads paved because…I mean…really?  Who wants to vacation with the Inuit’s?    

Even the homeless have their limits on where to travel, especially during the winter.  They only go to the parts of Canada where the snowbirds have abandoned their mountain homes for the winter.

Homeless people aren’t stupid, or they wouldn’t survive for long.  Yet it does seem strange that Kansas is preferable to Mexico.  Then again, with so many corn fields, they’ll never starve.

homeless.gif
from huffington post

But alas, I digress.

In the USA, all but 1% of the roads are paved.  The difference between paved and unpaved roads can be seen in these pictures:

The road in front of my house

P1050946.JPG

Contrast that with L.A. at Rush Hour

LArushhour.jpg

For your viewing pleasure, here is a Canadian road during a major event:

Canadian Polite 3.jpg

 

Looking at the big picture, I’d say that Los Angeles has as many miles of paved roadway as all of Canada.

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Canadian politeness is legendary

Here in the USA, that attitude has traditionally been called “Milk toast.”

The USA is known for letting it all out.  Just ask our favorite irreverent American, Maxine:

A maze Maxine.jpgMaxine on winter.jpg

If that isn’t enough to convince you that most people in the USA aren’t the type to say “sorry” in a Mosh Pit:

polite canadian1.jpg

In the USA, most graffiti is…well…graphic.

(UNABLE TO POST PICTURES UNSUITABLE FOR CHILDREN UNDER 18)

But not in Canada

Canadian Polite 2.jpg

So there you have it:  The difference between the US and Canada:

People in the USA say it like it is and Canadians want to survive.

Posted in Floridaborne, Humor

Retiredment

You’ve probably heard that old cliché, “I’m a day late and a dollar short.”

Well, I just retired, so I’m 2 days late for my November post and now I’m short by 1/2 my income. 

It’s the second day, and I’m already wondering how I’m going to buy  groceries next month.  Not that I don’t have enough to buy $20 worth of groceries for the month, but I still worry.

My family, all of whom voted for Hillary Clinton, have questioned my sanity as of late. 

I’ve calculated that if I burn a parked car and then point my loaded clam-shell phone at the police, I’ll end up in jail.  The food there is better than a nursing home, and I’ll have more rights.

Just a thought.  I’m still working on completely stripping down my entire budget.

I just had another thought!  I could panhandle by threatening to strip right there on the street if I don’t get $20.  But then I’d end up in jail anyway.  Or under 72 hours of mental health scrutiny.  

I’m a writer…I can’t afford to have my mental health scrutinized.  

I want to live in the same retirement community this human is living in:

Since I’m not insanely rich, that will never be an option.

I have only one alternative:

Why did I retire in the first place?  I tell people it’s so I have more time to write.  

Really?  And how am I going to afford to get my books edited?

demotivators.com knows the truth:

I’m still with one, and another one died, but when I left 3 of my 5 husbands, this was my motto:  

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It’s the same thing with a job.  I’d rather know when it’s time to leave than to be told, “retire or be fired.”

Instead of a frown and a finger pointing at the door, I received a delicious cake, a nice party,  some fantastic comments about my work skills, and a gift that I can actually use.

Had I been able to wait, this is when I would’ve retired:

I live in Florida already, but frankly this unfortunate truism scares the hell out of me:

That’s what Northerners look like when they’re sitting on the beach in January.

This is what I look like when I’m sitting in a restaurant with the A/C turned up too high:

Yes, that’s me in the hat.

Anyone north of the Florida border is from “up north.”

I don’t want people to move here from up north!  They buy a lot, cut down all the trees, build houses with small windows, plant the trees they loved when they lived up north, and they complain bitterly when it’s hot in the summer, cold in the winter, and nothing they plant (whether trees or crappy ideas like “that’s not how we do it up north”) wants to live here.

This is Florida.  If you don’t have a lot full of trees and large windows surrounding your house, you’re going to be very, very uncomfortable.  If you didn’t listen to me when I told you this the first time, you’re stupid.  You can’t fix stupid and I don’t want to hear you complaining about your $500 a month A/C bill.  

Okay.  So now that I’ve gotten that rant out of my system, I’m ready to continue.

Perhaps I can take an online course in interior decorating.  I have such good ideas:

Here are my final thoughts about my impending ultra-poverty experience:

Either that, or I’ll be 106 years old, won’t be aware enough to know that I’m not an insanely rich writer living on an tropical island…

…and that ball of fiery rock will be the last thing I’m trying to see.

Until then, I’ll be haunting the bread outlets, standing in line with my friends for free food, and hoping that my 1992 Chevy will last long enough for an efficient cross-country mass transit system to be built.

That, by my calculations, will probably be completed 39 years from now, a year before the asteroid hits.