It was only a couple innings of pre-season ball, but I hate, loathe , and scorn the new pitch clock rule in baseball.
To tell you how much disdain I have, the pitch clock is worse than the designated hitter rule. And the DH ruined baseball.
I spit in your general direction Rob Manfred.
More broadly, the overall number of immigrants — legal and illegal — working was up 2 million in the fourth quarter of 2022 compared to the same quarter of 2019, before the COVID pandemic hit, according to a CIS analysis. That analysis was based on the Current Population Survey collected by the Census Bureau for the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Meanwhile, there were 1.9 million fewer U.S.-born Americans working over the same time period. source
Emphasis mine. Offered without further comment. Draw your own conclusions.
Just because you are offended, it does not make you victimized.
If you need additional explanation, you might be the problem.
A guy walks into a bar with his dog but the bartender says,
“Sorry, we don’t allow animals in here.”
The dog replies, “Hey, I’m tired of being discriminated against. Just give me a drink.”
The bartender says, “Oh, no, not another ventriloquist with the old talking dog trick. Both of you, get out of here!”
“No, no, no, this isn’t a trick, I promise you,” says the man,
“I tell you what, I’ll go for a walk around the block and you talk to Rover here.”
The man leaves and the bartender sees him turn the corner.
“Now, can I have my drink.” says the dog.
The bartender is amazed.
“Sure you can and it’s on the house! Listen, can you do me a favour? My wife works next door at the cafe. It’ll make her day if you go in and order a cup of coffee.” Here is ten bucks and you can keep the change afterwards.”
“Okay.” says the dog and he takes the ten dollars and leaves.
Ten minutes go by and the dog doesn’t come back.
The owner returns and asks where is the dog.
So both of them go off to see what has happened to the dog.
As they approach the cafe, they see Rover going at it hot and heavy with a French poodle in the alley between the bar and cafe.
The owner shouts, “Rover! What are you doing! You’ve never done this before!”
“The dog shrugged.
“Hell, I’ve never had any money before.”.”
A man and his wife were sitting in the living room and he said to her,
“Just so you know, I never want to live in a vegetative state,
dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle.
If that ever happens, just pull the plug.”
His wife got up, Kissed him ever so gently,
unplugged the TV and threw out all of his beer.
Happy Monday Hoosierboy fans. I hope you had a great weekend, I did. Nothing was accomplished, but it passed pleasantly nonetheless.
On Saturday the wife babysat in the afternoon and while she was gone I sat in front of the Tv and watched something and napped and watched more stuff. In the evening we went to visit some friends. We ate Mexican food and played cards. I drank one whole beer! It was a wild Saturday night!
Sunday I watched tv and napped and watched more stuff. The wife went to a pampered chef party.
The amount of sheer excitement likely leaves you overwhelmed.
Now it is Monday. The fun rolls on like a runaway freight train filled with toxic chemicals.
If you choose to watch the Hulu series about 1619, be warned, you will be dumber and less educated after viewing it.
Lately my creative efforts have gone into writing and rewriting on my novel. In truth, that thing will likely never see the light of day. I am afraid I have written 55,000 words of drivel so far. I have sent off my efforts to a very good friend who writes for a living. I trust his opinion. You have likely seen him on TV or read his work. He is a terrific journalist. While we probably don’t agree on stuff politically, that does not mean he isn’t a talented writer.
Anyway I need affirmation or tough love from an honest critic and he will provide that input. I am sure he will find a nice way to say “juvenile and hackneyed “ without sounding mean.
Have a great Friday.
A boss said to his secretary, “I want to make love with you, but I will make it very fast.
I’ll throw $1,000 on the floor and by the time you bend down to pick it up, I’ll be done.”
She thought for a moment then called her boyfriend and told him the story. Her boyfriend said, “Do it but ask him for $2,000. Then pick up the money so fast, he won’t even have enough time to undress himself.” She agrees.
After half an hour passes, the boyfriend calls the girlfriend and asks, “So what happened?”
She responds, “The …bastard…..used …..coins”
Joe was sitting at a bar. He was totally depressed. The bartender, serving him a drink, asked what was wrong.
“I’ll never understand women.” – said Joe.
“The other night on my birthday, my wife said as my gift, I could do with her what I wanted.”
“Wow! That’s quite some gift.” – said the bartender.
“So why are you so dejected?”
“Well I thought about it for a while” said Joe, “and decided to send her home to her mother, and now she won’t even speak to me!”
i didn’t watch. I don’t care what that bag of wind had to say. I know the state of the union when I go to the grocery or I buy gas.
It will be warm today but it will rain this afternoon.
I started growing my beard on a November 1 last year. I kept it neat and trimmed. On a whim, I shaved it off February first. On Saturday, February 04, my wife said “Hey, you shaved!” I’m glad she noticed.
Speaking of noticing things, did you know it is Black History Month? There has been nothing said about it in print, television, news stories, or posts on social media. I don’t want you to miss it.
Near the end of July, Jeff announced he was having a party at his parent’s lake house to celebrate “graduation, the end of summer, going off to college, and the last high school fling.” The first weekend in August, Sarah and I piled into the back seat of Tim Flynn’s car. Jenny Moore was in the front chattering away with excitement. Tim was driving his mother’s new Pontiac Bonneville. Rock music exploded through the stereo speakers as we flew down the highway. A faint smell of corn and dirt seeped through the open windows.
We pulled into the yard at the lake house and
parked beside several other cars. Sarah and Jenny went inside to change, Tim
and I went around to the back. There was a tub of beer on ice on the deck. The Bee
Gees were playing at high volume while Jerry Schwartz tried to imitate John
Travolta’s solo dance steps from Saturday Night Fever. He was not good
at it.
I reached into the ice and pulled out a beer.
“Turn that crap off!” I shouted. “Disco Sucks” echoed Tim, pulling the tab from
his own beer. Sarah walked out of the house wearing a strapless red bikini. She
looked stunning. I promptly gave her a wolf whistle.
Sarah struck a pose and asked, “Buy me a
drink, Sailor?” I asked her what she wanted and she said beer was fine. Jenny
was pouring vodka into a plastic cup half-full of orange juice. She watched
Jerry for a minute and shook her head. Some people were splashing in the lake
and jumping off the dock. There was a group of kids playing volleyball at a net
set up in the grass.
Jeff appeared around the corner. “Get over here, Wyatt” he shouted. Sarah and Jenny walked down to the dock where several other girls were sunning. Tim and I walked around the corner. The Anderson brothers were throwing horseshoes. “Come on, let’s play,” said Bill. Tim grunted that horseshoes was an old man’s game. “Not if you make it into a drinking game,” laughed the elder Anderson brother. Someone finally turned the radio to a rock station.
Later in the afternoon someone went to town
and brought back buckets of chicken and slaw. I sat with Sarah and Rachael
Morris on the edge of the dock. Jeff plopped down and spilled half the coleslaw
from his plate onto his lap. We all laughed. He slipped into the water to rinse
off. “No Problem,” he said. Asked him if
we could go skiing. He said his parents had forbidden use of the speed boat.
As I walked to the garbage bin to throw away
our collected plates, I spied a canoe upturned by the house. I chugged my beer
and grabbed the canoe and dragged to the water’s edge. I went over to my
clothes and found a cigar and stuck it in my mouth, unlit. “Sarah, my dear,
shall we go boating?” I asked with a terrible British accent.
Sarah shook her head. “You do not know how to
paddle a canoe.”
I straightened to attention. “I will have you
know I earned my Canoeing Merit Badge as a Boy Scout. I am an excellent canoer,
uh, canoeist, um, canoe driver, ah, canoe captain. You will accompany me, woman,”
I ordered. Sarah laughed and followed me to the edge of the lake.
I pushed the canoe in and held the stern
while she climbed in. “Hold the gunwales, that is the sides, and walk straight
up the middle one foot behind the other,” I instructed. Sarah reached the bow
and turned and sat in the seat facing me.
“I hope you are not planning on me helping paddle
this thing, Mr. Expert,” she intoned. I told her to have no fear. I was in
command and control.
I pushed the boat off and jumped in. I
paddled a few strokes to get us past the dock and then turned the canoe
parallel to the shore with expertise. “You might really know what you are
doing, even if you are half-wasted,” she said. I assured her I was highly
skilled. Sarah leaned back. I couldn’t
help but admire her body.
“You look ravishing, My Dear,” I told her,
still staying in character. The water sparkled with reflected sunlight. Sweat
droplets ran down my back. I stuck the cigar back between my teeth and rocked
the canoe side to side.
“Stop. You will tip us and I do not want to
get my hair wet.” I rocked again, laughing. “Stop it, Sam,” Sarah said sternly.
She gave me a mock angry look. I do not know why; at that very moment I
deliberately tipped the canoe over.
Sarah came up from the water sputtering and
spitting. “Sam Wyatt you are an asshole,” she shouted.
I dog paddled a few strokes to her. Using my
best Dudley Do-Right impersonation, I shouted “I’ll save you, Penelope.” I reached
across her chest, pulling her onto her back, life-saving style. I took
advantage of the situation to grope her breast and began to kiss her in mock
mouth-to-mouth breathing. She pulled away and swatted at me. At this point she
was laughing. She told me I really was a jerk. I stood up. The water only came
to my chest.
Sarah swam around and put her arms around my
neck and wrapped her legs around my waist. I supported her bottom as she kissed
me. “You are really a jerk,” she whispered, “But I love you anyway.” She gave
me a quick peck and a crooked smile. I could only grin.
Evening came. The sun painted the horizon
with orange and purple hues. The drinking tapered off as we helped clean up the
mess. The girls changed and we all piled back into Tim’s car for the drive
home. We had the windows open, enjoying the cool breeze after the day in the
sun. Jenny was pretty drunk from the screwdrivers. She swayed a little in the
seat as she tuned through the radio stations looking for something that pleased
her. She looked over at Tim, her face pale. “Honey, I think I am going to be
sick.”
Tim started to slow the car looking for a
safe place to pull over. “Do not puke in the car!” he ordered. Jenny promptly reached
into her bag and threw up into her damp beach towel. The car was still moving
fairly quickly down the highway, there was no shoulder, only a ditch beside the
road. Tim accelerated trying to find a pull-off.
Thanks for the great response to my writing attempts.
I’m going to post another section from the book tomorrow, it is much longer and quite different in tone. I woke up Friday morning at a little after 5:00 AM with the passage I will post very nearly written in its entirety in my head.
Do not be afraid to offer criticism. I am a big boy.
Here is some music for your Saturday.
I sat on the edge of Carrie’s old twin bed. Weak sunlight filtered in through the opening of the pink curtains. I unsnapped the plastic case and took out Dad’s old pistol. It was a snub nosed .38. The chrome was worn in places, but the barrel was clean and the gun was oiled. The weapon was the very definition of a Saturday Night Special; compact and deadly. Dad used to keep it in his desk at the bank, I suppose in a misguided notion he could foil a holdup or something.
The pistol had a reassuring heft. I had fired
it many years ago. It had a little kick for such a small gun. The hole it left
in the paper target was serious enough. I held the pistol to my head and pulled
the trigger. Snap. I opened the box of shells and counted them. There were
nineteen. I fed five shells into the cylinder even though I only planned on
using one.
I had never felt such…despair was not the
right word…hopelessness. I was drowning in my very existence. For the first
time in my life, I just did not care about anything. It was as if weights were
on my legs, my shoulders, my arms, my fingertips, my lungs, and my heart. I was
pressed down by the enormity and futility of it all. It was like that touch of
panic claustrophobia you felt when you found yourself in a dark tight spot -- the crawlspace under the house, in a closet, or crawling to reach
something that rolled under the bed. It was like that panic, only magnified –
it was the claustrophobia of living.
“Not here,” I thought. Not on Carrie’s bed. I
walked down the hall. I could never leave such a mess in the bedroom I shared
with Sarah. I went outside to the
backyard. I sat on a chair, cocked the gun, and held it to my temple. I heard
the kids next door laughing and splashing in their little blow-up pool. For the
next sixty years, to those children, I would be the neighbor who offed himself. I
gently squeezed the trigger and lowered the hammer with my thumb.
I sat on the patio until darkness fell. I
walked inside and unloaded the gun and returned it to its plastic box. I put
the shells back into the carboard carton. I sat in my recliner and opened a
bottle of bourbon.
