Thicker Is Not Better

By wr jones

You can tell by the expression of this young lady, unless you are an idiot, that she is fed up with plastic packaging.  I am too.

She is missing her left arm which was lopped off in a chain saw accident while trying to open her new toaster.

All this talk about “Green” is a huge pile of whiffledust.  We keep pouring more and more plastic into the environment.   I don’t really care about the coming ecological disaster, I will be gone.  But someone, say around the age of 3, should be near panic.  If they were smart they would write their congress person to complain.  Assuming, of course, the 3 year old could remove the thick damn plastic from the new pen.

I bought some batteries the other day.  Spent 30 minutes trying to get them out of the pack.  Missed the show I was needing the batteries to watch.  I looked high and low thru the house for an implement to cut through the very hard thick plastic package.  Finally used those chicken scissors that are part of a cutlery set.  Even then it was a struggle.  I expect the next step in the package industry vs consumer war they will move toward a steel box welded shut to hold those paper clips you need for the office.

I can understand this vault type packaging would cut down on the shoplifting of small items.  Hard to hide that watch battery entombed in a body size package you can barely get to the counter with a large cart.

Performance Enhancing

By W. R. Jones

I don’t get what the fuss is about performance enhancing drugs.  Those athletes are doomed to train-wreck bodies anyway.  Do you really give a shit what drugs they take?  If you do simply because they may influence your little Johnny or Mary to imitate their heroes, then you should start a parents against ball players chewing tobacco and scratching their nuts on TV group.  I may join that one myself.

If they had painting enhancing drugs I would take them in a pair of seconds.  I’ve Googled every possible combo looking for such a thing.  If fact I’m surprised they don’t have at least a high cost placebo.   Look at all the ads suggesting 98% of men have limp peckers.  We must have an equally high of  percentage of us that don’t paint all that well.  We  need a drug promising excellent painting results in 90 days; accompanied by TV promos showing suck work before and pieces of great beauty hanging in the Louvre with the painter speaking fluent French (when before the drug they spoke a lower form of Eubonics).

I’ve tried alcohol (more than a few times) all with the same result.  It seems the painting is going swimmingly but the next thing I know I’m waking on the bed with paint loaded brush still in my hand now resting on the pillow next to me.  So far I’ve been lucky in that the brush has always landed on my wife’s pillow.  She will have to check her hair in the morning light for undesired highlights.

No English ~ No Green Card

By WR Jones

I’m going to have to stand firm on this English requirement for a green card or citizenship.   They don’t have to know every word or how to spell; otherwise I would be out as well.

The minimum language requirement would be that they can tell the difference between light mayo and no pickles.  I ordered a hamburger with fries the other day.   Having been through this fiasco at different fast food joints the previous two hamburger runs, I was very careful in my wording.   “I would like one hamburger, light mayo only.  That is not too much mayonnaise.”   “OK, anything else sir?”   “And 1 order of fries.”   “OK, sir, I have one hamburger, light mayonnaise only, and one fries.”   “Yes, that is correct.”   “That will be $5.43.  Your order number is 756 – you should have got here earlier, you old dummy.”

I waited for the other 755 orders to complete.   Another woman called my number.   I stepped up to…. a lonely hamburger.   “I ordered fries also.”   “We no have fries, not working.”   “NO FRIES! You miserable misbegotten cow?”  That is what I said on the inside.  On the outside, “ok”.

I drove off with my lonely hamburger.   And as I’m driving and talking on my iPhone (screw the law, I live wild and free.).   I reach into the bag and pull out my hamburger.   Now I’ve got the iPhone in one hand and the burger in  the other and steering with one knee.  But I’m focused down the road so it is completely safe, you understand.

I bite into the hamburger.  My taste buds hit the taste enjoyment blocking pickle and ketchup.   Out comes the MF expletive.  In a fit of rage I attempt to fling the offending burger out the window.   Turns out the flinging hand held the iPhone.    Furthermore, the phone hits the side window of the police car next to me at the light.   Now I’m talking into my hamburger wondering why I lost connection.   The cop, shit eating grin on his face, trades my iPhone for a nicely printed instruction sheet on how to contact the court system.

While he is writing my citation I drew this picture (from memory) of the, I call her, Pickle Woman.   I figured maybe my attorney could make her pay part of my fine.  (you can never over estimate the stupidity of a jury).   Of course, being from memory, this may not look a thing like  her.  It could have been some big ornately tattooed male instead.

Maybe that movie “Supersize Me” had it right.  This stuff is not good for you.   Otherwise how do you explain this is the 3rd time in a row this has happened to me and still I have not learned to check the order before driving off?