It’s a sad thing to realize that any interaction with authority figures must be governed by the realization that it is extremely difficult to tell in initial contact whether they are exercising legitimate authority. . . legitimately. Or not. Time can tell the tale, but giving up information unnecessarily in the beginning only gives illegitimate interlocutors more hooks to deceive and manipulate the interaction to your detriment. Concealing information from legitimate authority, until they prove their legitimacy and good will, can slow the process (whatever it may be) and possibly instill suspicion in them, but until their intent is proven worthy, questions to define the scope and sequence of the interaction ultimately followed, if necessary, with “Fifth Amendment. Lawyer,” seem to be the only safe strategy. (Tactics for safe obfuscation and reverse-interview *heh* can vary.)
All Dressed Up. . .
Got up earlier this morning and saw that I was ready for a day of Red Skelton impressions. I even had the hat for it.
“Stupid? Hold My Beer.”
rom a comment thread elsewhere:
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*’
“¯\_(?)_/¯”
Gavin Newscum as. . .
. . .Turdfinger, the man who flushed California down the toilet.
[cue campaign theme music]
“Turdfinger (Turdfinger) the man with the fecal touch. . . “
[Censored pre-publication.]
“That’s too weird” — My Wonder Woman.
Dealing With SuckyInternet(and TV)® Provider
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®.
Updated Nursery Rhyme
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)
Crossing the “Ts” and. . . Crossing the Bar
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. . . ¯\_(“/)_/
¯
The Reason Dhimmi-craps Are Such PITAs Is. . .
. . .that they don’t even care enough about those they are sodomizing to use lube.
Young ‘n’ Feisty
while waiting in the checkout lane at my fav “Fell off the back of a truck” store the other day, I met a young Island Lady (well, my Wonder Woman’s age—that’s young enough) who shared with me the circumstances of her birth. Yeh, I know. Complete stranger. . . for all of five seconds. *heh* She just HAD to tell me she was “born in a canoe.”
You have NO idea the level of self-control I had to exercise to bite down on the old joke.