Friday, March 17, 2017

Ireland Explained

Ireland:  Welcome American suckers!
Ireland is like Disneyland only drunker.  On this St. Patrick's Day, let me explain.

Many years ago when Ireland ran out of potatoes, large numbers of the O' Haras, Murphys, Ryans and other Micks hightailed it to the United States where there was food, lite beer, TV, Celtics and Red Sox games not to mention many like minded red-faced alcoholics (see Germans).  The remaining Irish citizens, too lazy to fish, distracted themselves by either fighting or getting drunk.  You are, of course, familiar with the old Irish conundrum: Get drunk and fight? Or, fight and get drunk?  The situation was dire.  Not only were most Irish citizens too blitzed to find their car keys, they also suffered with an economy that held little in the way of good paying quality jobs.  No longer was it enough to be either a mud farmer or a sheep rapist.  Those days were gone.

One day some inebriated wag in the Irish tourist bureau latched on to the idea of tourism as a key to reviving the fortunes of the Old Sod.  Why not play up the whole St. Patrick's Day claptrap about a guy driving snakes from the Emerald Isle?  Punch up the leprechaun b.s. too and throw in rumors of a pot of gold and all that jazz.  You see, word had reached Ireland that most of the folks who had split for the U.S. when spuds became scarce could not stop bragging about their former homeland and loved to cry in their lager about wanting to go back.  "Let's lure them back with cheap tours and superior booze," was the rallying cry.  A national turnaround had begun.

Bill O'Copper, typical ugly American and distant relative.

And so it came to pass that Ireland became the absolute best place on the planet to find drunken boisterous Americans.  Head for Dublin, Cork, Killarney or any of those oh so lovely old cities and you'll see tons of fat Americans in tank tops and Bermuda shorts loudly proclaiming their Irish heritage as they stagger from pub to pub.  

If you don't drink, an Irish tour can be an amazing bargain.  Not only can you scarf all the delicious chowder and the abundant fruit of the sea that the locals discovered once they learned to bait a hook, but you will never pick up a check thanks to all your drunken pals saying, "I got this."  My wife, Linda, and I did this very thing about seven years ago with several other great Americans who also make vague claim to Irish identity.  (My grandmother's name was Ruby Ryan and I used to drink...a LOT.)
I do believe we made money on the trip.  Everybody else was pretty well impaired--especially after the Guinness tour--and more than happy to pick up every soggy check.  Good times!  

Another tour of the Emerald Isle in the future?  Nah, but I will have another bowl of those Lucky Charms.  Murphy is buying.

Linda and me looking at yet one more old pile of Irish bricks.
Something for the fitness freaks
"It's amazin' Seamus, you can eat the stuff you pull out of the water!"

Friday, March 10, 2017

Keeping Your Teeth To Yourself, and other stuff...

The Idaho DMV is no longer allowing people to show their teeth when getting a picture taken for a new driver's license.  Apparently showing a big ol' toothy grin messes up the new facial recognition software designed to help the state stop identity theft.  I read this story a couple of days ago in the local paper and, naturally, had to reach for my wallet to make sure I was not in violation of this new mandate even though my license was a couple of years old.  To my relief I found my picture to be in compliance as it merely made me resemble a mentally deficient vagrant who could be either toothless or hiding an amazing set of choppers.  I also noticed, for the first time, that my hair color is listed as "bald".  Perhaps that explains all the smiles flashed my way by the elderly matron who took my picture and my money.  "I'll fix this California chrome dome," may have been her mantra.  Whatever the case it's good to know that my tight-lipped follicle free visage is quite accidentally in compliance with the new spud state rules.  

This news had me remembering the number of driver's licenses I have carried which featured no picture and were mere pieces of paper containing my name and address.  When did the plastic authorizations with our pictures happen?  I really can't remember.  It's like that now.  The older I get the more I realize that many things are far different than they were just a couple of years ago.  And, it also seems as if every time I ponder that dilemma, a "couple" of years winds up being twenty or thirty.   
For example:  Where did white wall tires go?  How about curb feelers and fender skirts?  Table radios or, for that matter, just plain old radios.  Try to buy a radio in any electronics store today and you'll see what I mean.  Hula hoops, full service gas stations and fifteen cent hamburgers are missing in action as are water beds and rocking chairs.  Most of we boomers remember rockers from our grandparents house or recall their resurgence when JFK made them cool again.  Try to remember the last time you saw a rocking chair in a furniture store.  (I know, Lazy Boys are far better, but rockers were kind of cool.) 

I still have my grandmother's rocker.  It must be at least 100 years old by now.  I'm thinking seriously of taking it with me the next time I head for the DMV and a license renewal.  They can snap my likeness as I rock slowly and show off a very large mouthful of those novelty Bubba Teeth I bought at the Exxon station.  It'll fit right into my life plan to remain idle and dependably entertaining.


Grandma Copper's rocking chair ready for action.
Available wherever the Hillbilly lifestyle is embraced.

Friday, March 3, 2017

Help! Spring Emergency

"We've been here thirty years and never seen a winter hang on like this one."
Lake Coeur D' Alene, March 2017
I've been hearing lots of this refrain and frankly it's not helping.  Coming to Lake Coeur D' Alene in the Idaho panhandle from Southern California more than two years ago is still doubtless one of the best moves my wife and I have ever made.  Neither of us relished the prospect of being among the last twenty or thirty conservatives in a circus where the ringmaster, Jerry Brown, and his liberal monkey minions are in control of the Big Top.  Having lived in eleven of the fifty states, it truly astounds me that in a mere thirty years of central planning and identity pandering sufficient to embarrass a Tijuana madam,  Democrat politicians have taken California from first to worst in my Hit Parade of states.  I miss friends but, my God, what a colossal train wreck the once "Golden State" has become.  Tragic, really, but the weather IS nice.   

North Idaho is spectacular.  Taxes are low, the scenery stunning, people are friendly and the price of nearly everything is a bargain compared to California.  The first two winters were handled with ease and then we had this one.  WOW!  More than 100 inches of snow, lots of rain and temperatures that have seldom seen fit to mosey out of the 20-35 degree range have given my wife and me cabin fever and a super duper hankering for some SPRING.  

Now, this is more like it!

Every morning I check the long range forecast and see nothing but "rain and snow showers through next week."  I'm beginning to feel like Jack Nicholson's character in "The Shining".  Warmer weather,  a patch of green grass, and blue skies would be a remarkably positive change in direction.  The problem is I don't know how much longer I can hold out.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play make Jack a dull boy...............................................................................................

Now, where is that ax?  "I'm comin' to get you Wendy!"


Friday, February 17, 2017

Mr. & Mrs. Taco 12-Pack

I wonder what took so long?  
In a city where you can commit matrimony officiated by none other than The King in a drive-through chapel, why wouldn't you want to give serious consideration to tying the knot at Taco Bell's 24-hour Las Vegas strip Cantina?  Heck, you could even book it for Taco Tuesday and look outrageously sophisticated.

It all starts this summer for taco loving couples ready for some serious re-fried romance.  
Taco Bell's more than reasonable $600 wedding package includes Taco Bell champagne flutes (Who knew?), "Just Married" t-shirts, a Taco Bell bow tie and garter, a Cinnabon Delights wedding cake and a wedding bouquet for the bride made entirely of hot sauce packets.  Also included in the hitching piƱata is a full blown ceremony presided over by any officiant you care to ordain.  (In Vegas this can be accomplished in as little as four hours.  For example: I, Reverand Ken, am ordained at the Bookie Buster Discount House of Worship & Lingerie.)

To kick off this new promotion Taco Bell is sponsoring a contest for couples that requires them to share a photo or 30-second video explaining how Taco Bell played a part in their big romance.  Add the hashtag #LoveAndTacosContest and fans will vote on their favorite stories; then beginning March 1st judges will choose the winning couple.  The winners will receive an all expense paid trip to...LAS VEGAS! including a honeymoon suite at a local hotel and an order of chalupas with a side of "oh baby, do that to me one more time."

Thinking outside the bun!

On the surface this seems like a fairly well thought out promotional vehicle for Taco Bell.  Most guys, if given the chance, would gladly trade a traditional wedding wingding for a $600 blowout at Taco Bell, however, I do see one big problem.  How do you get the potential bride drunk enough to make this seem like her dream wedding?  Remember she has been watching movies like Tammy & and the Bachelor, Father of the Bride, and Sleepless in Seattle since she was a little girl.  Good luck peddling hot sauce bouquets and Taco Bell garter belts to well, uh...just about any female you know.  

Maybe the executives at the Bell need to give this a little more think time.  Perhaps adding a jumbo order of re-fried beans for those traditional wedding night Dutch ovens?  
Yeah, maybe that's a guy thing.
Never mind.

Maybe if you got the Colonel to officiate?

Friday, February 10, 2017

Let The Bidding Begin!

Some people really know how to spend a hundred grand.  
Consider the discretionary budget available to the clown who just forked over $100,000 for a Cheeto that supposedly bears an uncanny resemblance to that big fat gorilla, Harambe, from the Cincinnati Zoo.  This was the gorilla who was shot by his handlers after he threatened a small boy who had gotten into his enclosure.  The kid was stupid and his parents inattentive but Harambe paid the price and became a bit of a legend, enough so to inspire an eBay seller to solicit bids on his  Flamin' Hot Cheeto doppelganger.  The bidding began at $11.99 and ended several hours later when P.T. Barnum's "a sucker born every minute" maxim or the right amount of alcohol kicked in and produced the $99,900 winning bid.

I guess I see the resemblance but, now what?  Surely you don't eat your new prized possession?  Do you shellac it?  Mount it on the wall?  Put it in the safe for positive proof you were not of sound mind when the kids go to probate what's left of your estate?

I thought about all of this for quite some time and have concluded that it is more than a little crazy to attempt to divine what makes a person with some spare cheese spend it on something like this.  No, it's time to forget all that and get busy finding something just as stupid to sell to the obviously growing horde of folks with more money than brains. 

A quick trip to the pantry and I struck gold!
Right there in that big Costco bag of Maui Onion potato chips was a little dandy that, I think you'll agree, is the spitting image of the late Franklin Delano Roosevelt. 
Simply check out the comparison of the chip with a 1945 photo of Roosevelt and Winston Churchill joy riding in a vehicle captured from Hitler's motor pool.  Uncanny!

I'm opening the bidding at $11.99.  This is a one of a kind treasure.  Operators are standing by. 

FDR...don't you see it??
FDR takes Winston for a spin in the Fuhrer Mobile, 1945.

Friday, February 3, 2017

If It Were Up to Me...

I just spent the past couple of days going through the dreaded cell phone update we all seem destined to endure every couple of years.  I hate the damn things but get shamed into upgrading my "cellular experience" more often than I'd like simply to ward off the laughter of younger far more tech savvy friends and neighbors.  Also, my wife likes to get new phones.

When did all this technology sneak up on us?  Wasn't it just last week that we were all carrying dimes just in case we had the overwhelming desire to call somebody while we were away from home?  Now it's almost a universal requirement that we carry these modern day slave bracelets at all times.  No longer are we allowed to go outside or to seek sanctuary in our cars when we simply want to be left alone.  These days, with the exception of a brave few, we are all "reachable" any time of the day or night whether we like it or not.  Some folks actually seem to enjoy this electronic intrusion and revel in never having to take a few moments to consider the windmills of their mind.  I just wish they didn't feel compelled to make the rest of us privy to every unbidden and completely uninteresting thought that rattles through their head.

"Hey, what ya doin'?  Me?  At the grocery store lookin' for some Campbell's cream of chicken."

How many idiotic geographical grocery related conversations are we compelled to unwillingly participate in before we start packing heat?  There seems to be no end to this nonsense.  Next time you're at the airport check out the number of waiting passengers killing time blabbing incessantly and boringly on their phones instead of reading a book.  Or, count the number of calls from people you know who are in their cars  and, instead of turning on the radio or merely THINKING quietly, decide to call your number hoping for some pretty swell and entertaining repartee'.  Granted radio is mostly a suck fest since the industry ran off yours truly and most of my reprobate buddies, but COME ON!  (No offense anyone who has  called me recently.)

So, now, I have a new cell phone.  The old one only had two years on it but was already, according to the millennial maiden who waited on me, an antique.  It has taken me two days just to make everything right and it'll take approximately another two years for me to feel comfortable with the new slave bracelet unless, of course, this one starts to make me look too fat or  too old.  Maybe it's time to just get one of those geezer phones.  What is it?  The Jitterbug?
Better yet, how about I just get a big sack of dimes.

Now, if I can just find one of these.

Friday, January 27, 2017

My New Girlfriend

Alexa, dream girl in a tube.

She quotes stocks, tells me the weather, updates my news, instantaneously blasts all my favorite music from Boz Scaggs to Hank Junior and Miles Davis.  Heck, she even belches on command.  Alexa, where have you been all my life?!  This little sweetie has changed everything around our house.  I can indulge my every Amazon Prime shopping whim by merely tasking Alexa to order whatever dumbass item pops into my gourd.  (This used to happen all the time when I was drunk but now my new honey makes this idiotic dance with commerce a delightfully sober experience.)  My short term memory not being what it used to be, I find PRESENTS for myself almost daily at the front door.  "Who ordered this?  Was it you Alexa, you little minx?"

Having made my bones in the broadcast business this concept of being your own program director at first frightened me.  Initially it was "smart" TV giving us the option of bypassing broadcast television to pick and choose what to view from sources such as Netflix, Amazon, Hulu, You Tube and tons of other applications.  Now, with Amazon Echo--where Alexa dwells--and a couple of other devices, we all have free rein to become our own program directors choosing the content we want to hear whenever we want.  This makes radio stations and station program directors (generally some of the worst people on the planet) superfluous.  Admittedly, if you feel the need, commercial stations can be summoned via Alexa by simply asking her to "Play WCBS-FM in New York City" or most any other outlet that streams live on the net.

You really have to get one of these things.  Even my wife is slowly warming to the charms of Alexa though--and maybe I'm dreaming here--I do believe the little tramp in a tube prefers "daddy".  (Sorry Alexa.  I hope you weren't listening.)

Oops...I guess she was.
"Ken, we need to talk!"