"In a democracy (‘rule by mob’), those who refuse to learn from history will be the majority and will dictate that everyone else suffer for their ignorance."
Looks like someone is trying to hold a “Baptist healing service”. . .
One of the most amusing things I’ve seen recently in a product description was for a $300 buffalo-hide “fleece-lined duffle bag.” Supposedly, “New Zealand lambs’ fleece lining will help keep breakables safe when traveling.” Yeh, pull the other one. One would need an adamantium case lined with several inches of viscoelastic foam to even come close to keeping breakables safe from baggage handlers, let alone TSA goons.
Sadly, even the naive cheesiness of most 80s TV shows is revealed today as simple “dumbitudinousness.”
McGyvver’s ingenious “inventions” are just as unworkable and stupid today as they were then. For me, McGyver was always moderately enjoyable as an exercise of my “suspension of disbelief muscle.” Things really, really do NOT work “that” way (whatever way most of his improvisational devices were supposed to work). . . *heh*
Star Trek TNG is still as dumb as it was then, though it lacks even the appeal of any serious cheesiness.
Etc.
The one 80s show that holds up even today is The Greatest American Hero. It’s just as dumb and cheesy today as it was then. Culp at least gave it a wee bit of (cheesy, of course) campiness. Oh, and it did have the picturesque (though lackluster acting of) Connie Selleca. There’s that. G-rated pinup girl for The Greatest American Hero.
But. . . there’s not much else that I find appealing about 80s shows today. In that, they share my evaluation of almost all contemporary TV shows: Stupid, without even the appeal of mockable cheesiness.
Too bad the Rockford Files stopped in 1980. If it had not, I’d have an 80s show to watch for something other than mockable stupidity or cheesiness.
Maybe I should only watch movies on our TV. Oh, wait. Stupid movies, too.
Oh, well. Perhaps I’m not meant to own a TV? No, wait. There are still good movies to watch, just not many made nowadays. Some Bruce Campbell “B” (or “C”) movies for camp. Archived copies of “Matilda,” “Johnny English,” etc. IOW, real classics. *heh*
Feeling a wee bit ambivalent. Disconcerted but thankful. Ins paid a larger percentage of ER bill for my Wonder Woman’s broken arm) than it promised to pay (on policy). How often does that happen?
(*scratches head and says to self* Don’t rock the boat, bubba.)
I have fun reading book blurbs of books I’ll never read. Take a recent blurb about a “cozy paranormal mystery” featuring two young women, “One a baker, the other a mortician’s assistant, and both blessed (or cursed) with the gift of talking to the dead. . . ”
OK, even leaving aside the stupidity of the supposed “gift/curse,” methinks the blurb writer should go back to Remedial Blurb Writing 101. ANYONE can talk TO the dead, or pretend to (or delude themselves into thinking they are). I’d not expect any real two way conversations, but imagining one is talking TO dead people is something many folks do. Not me, but others seem to do so.
But, if I were dead and just hanging around (although I rank that as happening somewhere around the Twelfth of Never), I wouldn’t stand for being talked to by some flesh puppet. Nope. Wanna talk to me? Buh-bye!
More seriously, what’s the appeal of necromancy, eh? I mean, #gagamaggot.
Some ya just gotta love. Others? Notsomuch.
A couple of months ago, one set of neighbors complained to the cops about our dog, a well-behaved medium-sized dog (Lab/Aussie Shepherd mix) who is just a real lover boy with family and strangers alike (no watch dog at all *sigh*), said “that big black dog” was “scaring” the children they had over from time to time.
Cops came and “interviewed” the dog. Found him to be a “real sweetheart.”
Still, pussy kids or asinine neighbor or both, irritating.
Not a word from the neighbors since the cops went back and told ’em he was properly tagged, well-behaved, and behind a proper-sized, continuous, locked fence, and so was not their problem.
Saw some of their family visitors over next door this a.m. with one of the residents of the home out with them. . . and a small dog running free. Told ’em to get that dog on a leash or I’d call the cops on them. (They have no fence and the “city” does have leash laws.)
When next I checked, they’d all gone inside, but I’ll check back, with phone in hand. . . because I meant it.
(OTOH, our good neighbors on the other side let one or two of their Jack Russell Terriers out in their front yard from time to time. Usually they’re either inside or in their kennel, but when outside off leash, they’re well-behaved, so I really don’t care. Heck, I enjoy interacting with ’em, and enjoy the times our good neighbora let ’em come over and play for a bit with me.)
. . .is sometimes metaphorically true in real life. For example,
“Nothing says ‘I love you’ like double-aught to the face.”
That might seem cold, but when dealing with a loved one who’s been turned into a zombie, it would nevertheless carry a truth.
In the real world, zombies of other kinds exist, primarily those whose destructive behaviors are the result of mindless herd (or pack) behavior, cultic devotion to a destructive leader, etc. In such cases, a metaphorical load of “double-aught to the face” can indeed be a loving act. Truth, forcefully or even brutally delivered, that demolishes belief structures that lead to destructive behaviors may sometimes be the only way to reach a loved one who has placed himself under bad influences.
So,
“Nothing says ‘I love you’ like double-aught to the face.”
Nowadays, some folks’ primary skill is blame-shifting. (and right now I’m thinking of folks in the medical field–really).
The farago of stalls, incompetencies, and finger-pointing surrounding my Wonder Woman’s recent efforts to have her broken arm actually treated is bind-moggling.
No insurance delays, all paperwork in multiple times, broken arm still–nine days later–in the emergency room’s temporary splint. Osteo says he’s still waiting on clearance from cardio and primary care doctor for surgery, while primary care doctor says has long since been given, with cardio’s blessing attached.
Somebody is lying.
Always fire a warning shot. There are two main camps on the subject of warning shots: in the air and into the ground. I demur. The best warning shot is center of mass. It conserves ammo and definitely gets the message across with little chance of misunderstanding. (Center of mass warning shots also minimize collateral damage.)
One should always continue offering proper warning shots until an aggressor’s off switch is fully engaged, although, if the aggressor’s off switch is not located near his center of mass, a polite tap-to-the-head warning shot might be required. Oh, be ultra polite and make it two.
Pease porridge hot;
Pease porridge cold,
Pease porridge in the pot,
Nine days old.
Some like it hot;
Some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot,
Nine days old.
As for me? I don’t know. The only food I’ve ever had simmering away for nine or more days has been broth/stock (chicken, beef, or just plain veggie) left on “warm” on a crock pot. Yummers hot; wouldn’t try cold.
If I ever tire of Phreddie P. Phineas Phocksphire Pharquhar, I think I would be happy to adopt “Nanny McPhee” as a sobriquet. . . although my Wonder Woman thinks “Manny McPhee” would be a bit less gender-bending. 😉
Thatisall.