"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."
OP: “Y’all think of me as smart, I know, but you have NO IDEA how stupid I get with no fuel in me.”ME: “More of us are that way than might admit to it. . . I cannot count the times (because I am coffee-deprived and forgot to eat breakfast? Maaaaaybee. . .) I have turned to my Wonder Woman and said, ‘How stupid am I? *smh*’
“¯\_(?)_/¯”
Just Another Tuesday. *heh*
I feel my mental cogs slipping day by day, so I play memory/card games, read papers (mostly pubmed, given age/health stuff), and try to keep any math I do “between my ears” (though I do account balances/reconciliations on paper).
But still. . . while I can recall mor advanced math concepts, performing actual advanced math is. . . not so much in my wheelhouse, nowadays. *sigh* Neglected for years, such things are all fog, now, and I’m left with simply checking basic math/stats in the papers I read for entertainment and information: my own lil “edutainment” program.
Oh, well. Heading off fairly gently into that good night, I guess.
Saw Aussie Lap Puppy licking my Wonder Woman’s cat’s butt again, and thought, “Hey! Could save $$ on toilet paper if. . . ” Nah. While it would be a $$-saver, I just think. . . nah. After all, I have enough problems with his “cat-butt tongue kisses” already.
. . .Turdfinger, the man who flushed California down the toilet.
[cue campaign theme music]
“Turdfinger (Turdfinger) the man with the fecal touch. . . “
“That’s too weird” — My Wonder Woman.
Called to remove one of two cable services subscribed to.
CS: I need to verify your account. (This after referring to me by name.)
C: Why? You already identified my account [by name] from caller ID; you know I called from a number that is registered to the account. What else do you need?
CS: I can verify the account with the serial number of one of your devices.
C: ?!? Specify “device.” Which of the fifteen connected devices are you referring to?
CS: [Mentions the ONLY device my network allows them to see]
Downhill from there. But at least it finally got done. Probably. Maybe,
Until just last month, the only other –semi-legit– Internet service has been our local baling wire and chewing gum telco’s “DSL.” Yeh, I watched ’em try to hook up their “fiber” line to our POTS service a few years ago. No. Completely outside standards. Crappy phone service anyway. Dropped their POTS.
Looks like I need to take down a couple of trees [junk elms I do not want, anyway) to effect best placement for a Starlink setup. Then I can cancel EVERYTHING with SuckyInternetCompany®.
Government regulation may reduce some risks, but it always makes innovation more difficult, at the very least.
Orville Wright did not have a pilot’s license.
Itsy Bitsy Spider
Itsy-bitsy spider crawled up the coffee cup;
Take a sip o’ coffee, slurp the spider up.
Gag and spew the coffee into the spinning fan
And itsy-bitsy spider crawled up the cup again.
(Based on real life fantasy. #heh)
Throwing knives is fun, and throwing knives ARE fun. (So is English. *heh*) First one must concentrate on technique. Spin or no spin? (I prefer thee latter.) Then accuracy. Throwing knives as defensive tools? *meh* Not so much. Accuracy at inflicting disabling (or fatal) wounds is MUCH more difficult than with a firearm, and if a knife wound from a thrown knife is NOT disabling, then one has just handed an attacker a weapon. Not good.
Still throwing knives is as much fun as any target-plinking can be.
Anyone who’s thinking of recording an address for their own funeral/memorial service–will reading, just think of it as your valedictory address celebrating your graduation to the Great Beyond. Ya might concentrate on inspiring people with all the lessons you learned from your. . . failures. (Life lessons usually seem to come from those more than from successes, even if the successes grow from the failures.)
I may resurrect an old (yeh, really old, as compared to my lifespan—currently sitting at 2/3 of my lifespan in the past) composition setting Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar” to music and suggest that as a closer instead of “Just Plant a Watermelon on My Grave,” since the image of a watermelon plant growing on top of a Folger’s can (at this time, the designated receptacle for my cremains) seems a bit weird. . . ¯\_(“/)_/
¯