Ken Copper: Organic, Mutts, and Micro Brews

I looked it up.

"noting or pertaining to a class of chemical compounds that formerly comprised only those existing in or derived from plants or animals, but that now includes all other compounds of carbon"

That, my fellow citizens of the planet, is the dictionary definition of the word ORGANIC.

So, unless I've missed something, this includes you, me, your fat neighbor, aunt Shirley, the dog, and those pants in your closet with the Hidden Valley Ranch dressing stain.

What I'm wondering is what is the VERY BIG DEAL with ORGANIC?! Apparently, for anything to be considered any good it has to be stamped ORGANIC by some clown somewhere. What gives? Is there a commissioner or czar of organic who wields a yea or nay in this deal?

It's getting out of hand you know. The latest in television technology, for you early adapters, is the OLED TV, which, in case you're among the many not in the know, stands for Organic Light Emitting Diode television. So what is the big deal? If the box doesn't work you can eat it? After all they are displayed not far from the organic bananas at Costco. Perhaps it's time to investigate just what ORGANIC brings to the big screen LED party other than the magic of chemical compounds that formerly comprised only those existing in or derived from plants or animals. (That dictionary sure comes in handy.)

Here is another puzzler that begs investigation: How did we get to a point where nearly everyone but me has a "service" dog? Perhaps a scam is afoot? Don't get me wrong, I love dogs but, like elephants, they're fun to look at but you wouldn't want to own one. Sure, I had dogs as a kid. My daughters had a dog too and when they left home the dog died. That's when my wife and I looked at each other and said, "the madness stops now." Dogs are the world's worst piggy bank. A pooch owner is a person constantly pumping money into food, vet bills, kennel fees, doggie health insurance--yeah, they have it--and dog whispering charlatans of every stripe only to be rewarded with an unending backyard full of dog dump. And now we have these faux "service" dogs with semi-official looking vests purchased on the Internet who suddenly are everywhere. People bring them to stores, restaurants and bars and a few are even willing to buy their canine buddies airline tickets for the next trip to grandma's. (Nothing like dog farts on a crowded plane.)

Sadly, as long as I'm bitching about the unending ruination of the country, the least snobby of all beverages, beer, is now under full attack by those soul sucking millennial hipsters. Though never a favorite of mine when I was in alcohol overdrive, I always respected suds as a harmless way to start the day. Beer, until quite recently, was a middle-class thirst slaker enjoyed by guys wearing bowling shirts and sporting names like Bud, Louie and Big Jake. Hipsters and their "handcrafted" micro brews have turned beer drinking into the same kind of elitist undertaking heretofore reserved for wine sipping pantywaists. (By the way, could somebody please explain how we "handcraft" beer?)

If it doesn't say "Bud", or maybe "Pabst" leave it to the posers. I't should be illegal to sell a six-pack of Pabst to anyone who doesn't look like Chester A. Riley. (If you don't know who he is, no brew for you!)