Happy Easter!

Enjoy! The Bread of Life . . . broken for you!

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Facebook AD-missions

Are you one of the 1.01 billion Facebook users?

Then surely you have had the occasion to check out the ads that pop up along the right side of your screen.  They are the modern billboards of the Internet’s Route 66.

For instance, there is Wal-Mart . . .

I’m not exactly sure what those numbers mean.  27 million people LIKE Wal-Mart, but only 3 million have been there.  Even less are actually talking about it apparently. And how do THEY know that?  Can THEY hear me through my computer?  Now I am just scared.   And if there truly are a billion Facebook users, then only 2.8% of Facebook users actually LIKE Wal-Mart.  Kind of insignificant when you look at it like that.  And what about the rest. . . do they HATE Wal-Mart?  Why don’t they have a HATE option?  For that matter, why isn’t there a LOVE option?  But I digress.

So here are some ads that have popped up along my travels on this information superhighway . . .

I didn’t even know I had a golf death move!  Holy Shit!  I could have killed someone!  I probably have–and I didn’t even know it.  And what’s worse, this site promises to eliminate my #1 death move.  What about my #2?  Or #3?  I’m pretty sure my game is bad enough I could wipe out the population of a small village large city with little effort.

I am so sorry if this blog has infected you.  I need Real to Read that Book.  NOT.

Thirty Eight pages of instructions is . . . easy????  Thank God there are pitchers or I might wind up building a nuclear submarine from those parts instead of a windmill for my miniature golf course (beware:  playing miniature golf may be dangerous for your health, especially if your partners have unresolved death moves.)

Twenty-one people ‘like’ false allegations?  I hope none of them are my friends!

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The Winter of My Discontent

Move over Steinbeck, I have a few words of my own.

It is probably–at least partially–my own fault for having faith in a little varmint from Punxsutawney.  The little rodent predicted an early spring this year.  Let’s be perfectly honest here . . . Phil has as much chance of correctly predicting the weather as the guys with degrees in meteorology and millions of dollars worth of radar equipment.  And Phil does it for free.

And I desperately wanted the worthless little furball to be right this time.

You see, I hate winter.

Winter comes with all the predictability and compassion of an unwanted season.  It is the last primordial vestige of the Ice Age (perhaps the only era in history worse than the Dark Age of Middle Age) and an annual reminder that Mother Nature can be less than a lady.

I do not like winter.  I like it not one little bit.  I do not like the cold.  I do not like it here or there.  I do not like it anywhere.  Wait a minute.  Strike that.  I do like winter in Hawaii.  But I digress.

I do not ice skate.  I do not ski—the thought of hurdling down the side of the mountain on a couple of bed slats doesn’t appeal to me somehow.  And don’t even have the gall to ask about cross-country skiing—that’s just stupid.  Why would any sane individual strap boards to their feet to walk from here to there?  I don’t fish in good weather, so ice fishing would be even more stupid than it sounds.  I used to sled as a kid, but as an adult, the hill going down has gotten far too short, and the hill going back up has gotten far too high.  I’m having angina just typing about it.  Excuse me, it was just gas.

So tonight it is snowing again.  The ground is white.  Some idiots would call it a winter wonderland . . . please!  This is Hell and it is freezing over.

Snow serves no useful purpose.  Rain at least waters things.  Life could not exist without rain.  Even plants in a desert have to get some water eventually.  But nothing grows in snow.  Look at a picture of Antarctica or the North Pole.  Or my backyard.  There is no moss on glaciers.  Ice kills.  No one in America besides me knows how to drive a car anyway.  You take your life into your hands just driving on a sunny day with a visibility of five miles.  Throw in a white-out and some slush in the passing lane and you’ve got a concoction that would make Dr. Kevorkian smile.

And after it snows, we have to move it.  We have to shovel it off our walks.  It snows again.  We shovel again–hoo what fun!   We’re like modern day Sisyphus’s shoveling, blowing and plowing as the snow continues falling, blowing, and cloning before we’ve even finished.  And then that jerk with the snowplow comes along and shoves more in my driveway before I even get back in the house.  He knows I love winter.  He knows I just love being in the great outdoors.  He knows when we are sleeping, and he knows when we’ve just cleared the end of our driveways.  He’s a moron and I may kill him if I get the chance.

No one calls this FUN!

Have you noticed that they never complain about global warming in the winter?

And deep inside my head, one of those many voices calls out.  “Why don’t you move south you idiot?”

I ponder this but momentarily.  This is my home and I will defend it from the elements for as long as I live, or until I retire, whichever comes first.  I do fear that I will die with a snow shovel in my cold, dead grip.

I have no more sense than a lemming and fewer cents in my pocket.

Why build a home in a flood plain?  Poor planning.

What causes food poisoning?  Home canning.

What’s worse than nails drug across a chalkboard?  Anything sung by Carol Channing.

Where am I going with this?

I do not know.  But I have miles to go and snow to throw.

All work and no play make me a dull boy.

All work and no play make me a dull boy.

All work and no play make me a dull boy—a dull boy, discontent with winter.

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