And now Ladies and Gentlemen ... My Pet Peeve of the week: 7/8/2020:
ITíS REAL. ITíS FAKE:
Of course thereís a difference between real and fake, my love. You do like my new diamond ring, do you not? Is it real? Is it fake? Oh please. No no no. We donít use fake anymore dearie. Itís so bourgeois. Today we use faux. Though I must say I donít wear faux diamonds. Itís real or nothing for me dahling. But. But but. Whatís the difference between real or fake, you ask? Everything is real if you think about it, is it not? Oh please. How else are the elitists going to be able to differentiate themselves from the common people if they arenít willing to shell out a few more shekels for something they like to call the genuine article? I wouldnít be seen dead in a faux anything, from jewelry to fur. Unless I was going slumming of course. Imitations are always acceptable when mingling with the lower classes. There are times when one just must pass. It wouldnít do to put on airs with your lessers. Why make them feel their insignificances? We know who we are. We donít have to force our ways upon others. They canít help being what they are, the same way a donkey canít help it that heís not a thoroughbred horse. Why, sometimes when Iím mingling with the help, I speak in incorrect grammatical English. It ainít so, I tell them. Iíll be gol-durned and hot damn girl, and if that ainít a pisser. I donít wear the real stuff when Iím around them. I do have some friends who are not up to our class you know. They try of course. They strive to elevate themselves. I wear my faux fur and faux diamonds when Iím with them. I wear my Leviís at thirty dollars a pair instead of my Valentinoís at nine hundred and ninety dollars a pair. I wear Macyís instead of Oscar De La Renta. I feel deliciously sleazy when I walk into a cheap store. But we do what we must to make others feel comfortable. I care about my virtual friends. Those whom I met unwillingly during the course of life. But I donít mind. I do what I have to do. I have no airs. No no no. Nothing fake in my life. Nothing fake about me. I am the real thing. I am genuine. Am I not?
STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK'S PET PEEVE
PAST PET PEEVES
Oh, so convoluted an oval it is. Imagine a six inch wide by four and a quarter inch high 3 dimensional globule weighing about three pounds and resting on a slender stalk measuring about three quarters of an inch thick. Itís a bit like balancing a cauliflower on a celery stalk. How do we manage that? And how inflated a sense of self it has. It is only one brain per human. And yet it urges us to refer to it as my brains. We donít say my bodies. Or my hearts. Where thereís only one, we use the singular. So why my brains? It uses the royal plural form when it want us to communicate with it. Not only that, but it also wants to compete with other brains that reside comfortably, or perhaps not so comfortably, within the skulls of other humans. The brains (not brain) of this human is far superior that the brains (again not brain) of that human. You sir, I pose this question: You measure my life in hours and I serve you by expiring. I'm quick when I'm thin and slow when I'm fat. The wind is my enemy. Who or what am I? What? You can not solve it? You sir, have the brains of a dolt. It is a candle. Your name sir? If you please. Joe Louis, you say? The great boxer? Yes well. You do have that ability. I, of course, would prefer Einstein as my friend. Whatís that, my good man? You want me to walk alone through Fuller Park, the most dangerous neighborhood in Chicago, with only one friend allowed to accompany me. Yes, well, Einstein is all well and good Joe. But if you donít mind, I would prefer you as company. Brains are actually a tad overrated. Whatís that Joe. You want me to explain something to you. Of course. Thatís what brains are for. So what do you want to know? Why oh why arenít brains referred to in the singular? Is there more than one brain behind those eyes? Or is it all just a question of egocentricity, all those twists and turns nothwithstanding?
QUESTION OF RECOGNITION.
Hereís what it is. You desperately need a stroke of luck, or so youíve been advised. And so you start looking. You try high. You try low. You go to the left. You go to the right. You climb mountains. You scale valleys. Perhaps, you begin to think, that for you the luck does not exist. You call it out. Hey. You. Luck. You hear a slight rustle of the wind in the trees. But you donít see the luck. You begin to open drawers. Nope. Not there. You try the closets, the shelves in the garage, the back alleys of the slums of the city. Nope again. You begin to read the periodicals. Nothing. You try the library. Zero. You begin to ask strangers in the streets. You know where I can get some luck? Nope. Sorry pal. No clue. Youíre going out of your mind. You go into a bar as a last resort. You buy everyone a drink. You donít hold out hope. Theyíre all half drunk. To the luck of the unfortunate, you shout out with your glass held high. To the luck of the damned they shout back, toasting you and all the other patrons. So by the way, you say, hiding the slur in your voice, anyone here know where I can get some of that luck? Itís all over the place, says one. You can get some at a newsstand, or at any dollar store. Or even on the street. You stare at the guy. Want to show me? Sure. And he takes you to the newsstand across the street. Gimme some luck for my friend here. And the vendor pulls out a small bag of luck and hands it to you. And you stare at it. Youíve seen this before. And it suddenly hits you that often, when youíre looking for something, and you canít find it, itís because you often donít recognize that you found what youíve been looking for. Recognizing luck when it comes your way is quite often more than half the battle. Why doesnít it make itself more apparent?
William Ernest Henley Ė 1849-1903
This is the poem that inspired Nelson Mandela to persevere through hardship. It has been hanging on my wall for quite some time.
It is one of my favorites. I pass it on in lieu of a pet peeve. I shall call it this weekís Pet Enchantment for it has
always enchanted me.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
THE LAW: This might well be aimed at those scant few of you who are glued to your televisions for want of anything else to do, politics aside. A woman was brought before a judge who deemed it necessary, through her elevated sense of self, to fine or jail this lady for opening her place of business in order to make money to feed her children. We are all born with one mind and one body, all equal one to the other. Yet there are those amongst us who feel their worth is more than the worth of those who do not ride the elite flotilla upon which they were fortunately thrust. The judge tried to punish this woman for having broken the law. After public outcry, the judge recanted. But hereís the thing of it all. While injustices abound, the criminalization of the innocent also flourishes. In ancient England, I once read, it was illegal to eat a pickle while walking backwards on the sidewalk? Ridiculous you say. But but, says the judge, that pickle eater might bump into someone and knock them on the ground and harm them. Therefore, I fine this person five hundred million billion pounds for doing this dastardly deed. This is only a wee bit of an example. We have had a few stupid ones here too. Anybody out there ever read Orwellís Animal Farm? All animals are equalÖ Thereís more but Iíll get into trouble enumerating them. What this all means is that there is no shortage of blithering idiots out there creating unjust laws for no other reason than to elevate their own senses of self. To those morons, who have no idea what theyíre doing, to you I say this. Every time you create a law thatís impossible to adhere to, you also create one or more outlaws. Outlaws, one might say, are as often as not, the creation of lawmakers. And that my friends, is my pet peeve of the week.
WHEN TUBES OF TOOTHPASTE FART: This, my friends and foe alike, is a recent discovery. And so, I do not have enough repetitive information to verify its accuracy. Here is the situation of which I have become aware a few times in the past few days. I have three different tubes of toothpaste, one of which I use regularly. The other two are for in case. Two tubes are 2Ē x 6Ē and one tube (This is the one I mostly use) is 1.75Ē x 5Ē. The larger tubes contain 4oz. and 3.4oz. respectively. The small one contains1.8oz. Or so it is printed on the outside. I was born innocent, and so when you told me something, I believed it. And then I got older, and the older I got, the less I believed. Today, the only thing I truly believe is that theyíre all trying to screw me. Call me a cynic. A few days ago, as I was glancing at that crazy looking devil in the mirror, I picked up my dental brush and began to squish some toothpaste on in. All of a sudden, the tube farted and a wee gush of air came out before the rest of the portion of toothpaste I was seeking followed. My suspicious mind immediately went into high gear. Are the ounces the tube says the ounces the tube has? Do the people who dole the product out, program the computer directed squooshers to interrupt the pasty flow with a bubble of air, reducing the amount by a smidgeon. Multiply that bubble with a world population of 7.8 billion and multiply that amount by the amount of toothpaste replaced by that wee bit of a bubble, and weíre talking big bucks here folks. I submit that I DO NOT know if this is true. But these are not the questions. The multiple questions are as follows. Is this possible? Is this tempting? Or is this nothing more than happenstance which resides in dubious comfort a mere micron above suspicion? And my last but not least of course, for extra credit, how many of you answered Yes, Yes, and No to my first three questions? Let me know. Do we thing alike? Or is my thinking process simply an aberration born of a cynical mind?
GRUDGES ARE FOREVER: So hereís what it is. And this is only my observations, limited as they may be. You have a spat with a friend. Thereís no such thing as infinity you say. He or she responds that of course there is and if you canít understand that, youíre not as smart as he or she thought you were. You draw your verbal sword. You calling me stupid? Yeah, Iím calling you stupid. At which point he or she gets up from the dinner table, throws a few bills in your direction in order to take care of the bill, and stalks off. He or she does not forgive disagreements. And now the friend is a friend no longer. Fortunately, you have no lack of friends. Itís ten oíclock in the evening. The phone rings. Yo Ö olí pal olí buddy of mine. I need a ride into the city. I need it now. Whaddya say? Your eyes roll to the heavens. Whatís going on in this world? Is everybody crazy. Sorry old friend, you say. Canít do it. Itís late. Got to get to work early tomorrow. You friend responds, advising you just exactly where to insert your work obligations, and telling you at the same time not to call anymore. Weíre no longer friends. And then you hear the click. And your now ex-friend is gone. The next day, during lunch when you tend to dine with a few work compatriots, you tell them the tale of your friends that were. To your amazement, they all agree with the positions taken by past companions, and with a few well-chosen words, explain to you that you are nothing short of a total imbecile. Not only that, but they, as a matter of allegiances by proxy to your friends that once were, do not absolve your acts, and have thusly and therefore decided to part ways. They have decided that they will not pardon you. But now hereís the thing of it all. Every weekend, Saturday for some, Sunday for others, they all go to their temples or churches or mosques, and they bow their heads in humble prayer as they each speak to their gods. And do you know what they ask for? Yup. You got it. Each and every one pleads for that which they will not give. They plead for forgiveness and understanding. Sheesh. Now thatís what I call an insane dichotomy. Or is it hypocrisy? Or is it something I just do not comprehend?
SNAKE OIL: I know you all know the scene. He is wearing a top hat to lend legitimacy to his spiel. Get yer bottle of Doctor Lukeís Medical Marvel. Cures lumbago. Fixes sagging jowls. Restores manhood. Makes yer hair grow. And for those cainít see so good no more, for thems who have cataracts, I have Doctor Luke hisself here to operate on the spot. He puts you to sleep with a few drops of chloroform, and a few minutes later, yer cured. And we give you proof. Oh look, Mary. Letís try it. And so they pay their two bucks and Doctor Luke puts a cloth over her nose and mouth and bandages her eyes. When she wakes, he shows her the thin membrane that he took off the outer edge of a hard boiled egg. And he tells here this was the problem. He removed it from her eye. Keep the bandages in place for a week, and youíll be as good as new. And then heís gone. Question for you all. Have things changed? Or is Snake Oil today still Snake Oil, only under a different name. You need a med for this. You need a med for that. This guy on the telly who gets paid a substantial sum of money, touts this as his medicine of choice. Is he a doctor? Hell no. Does he have any medical training? Bah. And if it doesnít work, too bad. Itís called free enterprise. I will give you all a test. Go look at that med that favors your interest. Sixty nine dollars for which you get sixty tablets. Take two a day and a month, or two, or three, you will see improvement. But whoa. Hold on a minute. Hereís a very similar med. Same money. But they give you one hundred and twenty tablets. Thatís half the cost. Double the value. And so you grab it. And you get it in the mail. They gave you just what they promised. One hundred and twenty tabs for sixty nine dollars. Youíre elated. You start reading the instructions in fine print. In order for this med to work properly they tell you, you must, you just must take four tabs a day. You didnít see that part. They didnít bother to tell you. They gave you double the amount and dosed it at double the amount. Savings? Zero! Hey. Doctor Luke? Now where is that guy when youíre looking for him? Ah, the world of honest advertising and honest medicine. Where has it gone? Yoo hoo. Doctor Luke? Where are youuuuu?