1) I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to post on Father's Day yesterday, but I hope all you dads had a good one. It was a great opportunity to tell Dad Jokes™ without reprisal. You know who you are. (And who you are is PL Woodstock.)
My late dad had a great sense of humor in terms of getting and enjoying jokes, but he could not tell a joke for beans. He either started laughing before getting to the punchline, or he forgot part of the setup and had to backtrack, or he felt he had to explain the joke in case you didn't get it (but you did). Well, he was omnicompetent otherwise, so not being Shecky Dad did not rise to the level of a character weakness. I miss him.
2) Last Wednesday, McDonald's beloved shake-enjoying blob Grimace celebrated his 53rd birthday by throwing out the first pitch at Citi Field. Since then the Beloved Mets have won five games in a row. Fans are calling this the Grimace Era. Plans for a Grimace statue have been discussed. It could stand next to the Seaver statue outside the park.
I'm not saying that there's any connection to the winning streak. After all, the games have been at home against the woeful Mariners and the struggling Padres. But maybe…
None of this would have happened if Grimace had not changed his ways, from the evil four-armed milk shake glutton to Ronald McDonald's two-armed dopey purple pal. Recovery works!
I would like to see if we could sign Grimace as a bullpen coach. Maybe get some of the others involved. Mayor McCheese could help calm things down in the front office, where they've been getting frantic as the trade deadline gets closer. Hamburglar could work as the base running coach. He's an expert in steals.
But no Ronald. We’ve had enough clowns.
3) Yesterday I took some Windex to the glass-top table on the porch. Not the first time this spring. I couldn't believe how thick the layer of pollen on it was. It was like pond scum. You would need a paint scraper to write "Wash Me" on it.
If you live in the northeast United States and you think this is a bad allergy season, you are right. But you are not entitled to compensation.
For a long time I've been annoyed with bumper stickers, even if I agree with their sentiments -- but most of the time I don't. They're either bragging or threatening violence, or just being rude. Isn't there enough rudeness as it is?
Worst, of course, are the political loons who are determined to stick something with their cause on every exposed quarter-inch of the car. But that at least serves a purpose -- as a warning label.
For a long time I've thought that people ought to come with warning labels. Some are provided by nature -- red hair, for example. (I know, I know -- just because I had universally bad luck with redheads doesn't mean they're all crazy or evil. Maybe it means they have good taste!)
Nowadays people are thoughtfully providing their own warning labels so you know who the crazy ones are. Weird hair color, bizarre tattoos and lots of 'em, industrial size hunks of metal as piercings -- all these are as helpful as a pantload of poop to identify people with whom you want to maintain distance.
If that's how they want to express themselves, that's A-OK. We believe that free speech is a right that comes from the God that made us. I, of course, expect the same protection of my right.
It would be a different case in the fictional nation of Fredtopia, where Benevolent King Fred rules with a kindly philosophy but an iron fist. Automobiles would be permitted no more than three bumper stickers. They could have any message they wanted -- Down with King Fred, Fred = Jerkface, King Fred Shags Wildebeest -- that's where the benevolent side comes in. But the presence of a fourth bumper sticker means a twenty-four-hour warning to remove one. If the offending excess sticker remains, the car is impounded, stickers above the number three removed by random selection, and the car returned upon receipt of the appropriate fine. Repeat offenders will face escalating fines and points on their licenses.
Benevolent but firm.
In other words, King Fred's message is: While we appreciate your freedom of speech, the Crown will remove signs of public insanity in the interest of keeping the peace.
On that note, King Fred would also have unmuffled vehicles policed. Your car or pickup runs at 100 decibels, you get three days to muffle that bastard. On day four the vehicle is impounded and used for trebuchet practice. Silence, like the Crown, is golden.
My quest for a great sinus-clearing ginger beer continues, especially in light of the fact that I am not allowing myself the use of ibuprofen as an aid to allergy-related sinus headaches. With fall on the way, I anticipate more such attacks, and I want to be ready.
I've mentioned before how I learned that the potent ginger spice in ginger beer -- generally greater than that of ginger ale by an order of magnitude -- can act as an astringent on the tender tissues of the sinuses, relieving pressure. This is what I seek in ginger beer. Not for making Moscow Mules, although if your taste runs to that, go daddy go.
Well, a friend recommended Bundaberg, an Aussie brand. I found it in a local supermarket, and saw the price tag:
What's the word? Bundaberg! What's the price? Three dollars twice! For a four-pack!
But by now I had become determined to find a ginger beer that would help me in my quest, so I bought it. It was on sale, anyhow.
Craft sodas, like craft beers, usually are worth the money if you want to splurge, and Bundaberg is a fine example. It has a rich taste, more layered and refined than other ginger drinks, and you can tell that the money is spent on production. It tastes good.
The only problems: It does not have that strong astringency that can clear my sinuses, and it has the explosion problem.
The bottles have a strange pop cap; each bottletop has its own pull tab, and you remove it in a two-step method, pulling the tab out and up. Or, if you follow the advice on the label and "invert bottle before opening," as I did, it can go off like a gunshot. It scared my wife and woke the dogs up from where they were keeping razor-sharp watch on the property. My wife was afraid I'd get a throat full of broken glass if I tried to drink it, but the glass was completely intact. When I tried to open the bottle without inverting it first, it was much calmer.
Ultimately, the Bundaberg not spicy enough for medicinal use, but my friend had warned me of that -- she's of Caribbean extraction and also suffers terribly from seasonal allergies.
So the quest continues. As I noted last time, ginger beer is Doctor-recommended! If I make any progress, I'll pull a Bundaberg cap off to alert everybody. You'll hear it.
As I sit here, I am typing mostly with my left hand, as my right arm is pressed against my side, an ice pack jammed in between. I feel as if a red-hot knitting needle has been stuck by Captain Ahab into the softest part of the upper arm. Nature sucks.
I was talking with a neighbor as the dogs peed, and suddenly felt this horrid shot of minuscule agony zing through me. It was centered in that tender part of the arm. I have only ever tested positive for yellow jacket sensitivity, but this seemed to have been a bee, since a stinger was left in me. One way or another, I got the sensitivity reaction. I had to excuse myself from the chatty neighbor so I could get the dog inside to howl. Me, not the dog.
No trip to the emergency department, though. Just little continuing spikes of pain at random intervals all night. Next day, the upper arm will turn into a large, hot welt, not generating enough heat to fry an egg, but enough to feel like a hard-boiled egg to the touch. The pain becomes dull, accompanied by itching. For the next three to five days, mostly itching, fading as slowly as an old actor who won't let go of the limelight. Basically, a week of discomfort, all because some little freak of nature got caught in my shirt and blamed me for it, when I didn't even see the aerial son of a bitch until it zapped me.
I know this is Mother Nature's doing. She is pissed at the piece I wrote about her stupid, stupid bugs. It's been what, three years, I think, since the last time one of these striped bastards got me, but Nature, who is a mother, suddenly decided it was time. Coincidence?
She reads my blog. I mean, I guess that's nice, but still.
I guess I ought to shut up while I'm still alive and not broke. Experience has taught me that the EpiPen doesn't really do anything to allay my reaction. I have one anyway, more as a security blanket in case my reaction has gotten worse since the last time.
Like everyone else I've been hearing about Mylan becoming the Worst Company in the World for jacking up the price of the EpiPen. Almost no one seems to have factored in the tax on medical devices that is part of Obamacare (no one but Kevin Williams), or that the FDA has all sorts of barriers preventing the sale of competing devices (no one but Megan McArdle), and no one seems to understand why Mylan and other healthcare companies have seen fit to do this---because the Supreme Court said insurance can be mandatory, that's why.
If you're covered, and we all have to be, the cost of the EpiPen will be covered to large extent and so the price hike is not so obvious when you go get one. So when your premiums skyrocket to cover these kinds of costs, you'll blame the insurance company, unless you read the paperwork (and even then you kinda blame the insurance company). So I'm surprised Mylan got caught on this gouging scheme, because it's going on all over the place and for the same reason---because government started screwing around with health insurance.
The old saw about subsidizing something meaning you get more of it doesn't apply to health as much as to health costs. Subsidize the cost of health care and amazingly, everything suddenly costs more. It is very much like the government giving money to colleges and students, and seeing a stratospheric rise in tuition.
So I hate everyone involved in this, but until the pain and itching go away, most of my hatred is directed toward the insect world. Some say Monsanto, a frequent winner of the Worst Company in the World sweepstakes, is killing honey bees and stuff with their chemicals. I urge them to focus on the wasps, but for the most part, kill all the bugs you want. I hate them. Momma Nature seems to always find a way to make more of the little creeps anyway.
I love you, nice warm weather, but you are trying to kill me. Woke up with a sinus headache that felt like I'd been getting punched in the eyes by cement garden gnomes and kicked in the head by their friend, the little cement burro. To feel this bad on a Sunday morning used to take a lot of fun on Saturday night. On the other hand, I'm not in need of throwing up my intestines, so it's not an exact analogy. But it is so unfair. The weather is fantastic this weekend. A little warm for me, but after the winter we had, I'll take warm in spades. Then, POW, right in the sinuses. "Oh, life is like that," says the adult Ralphie narrating A Christmas Story. "Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at it's zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us." But I can't stay mad at Nature---after all, you only get in trouble when you get on Mother Nature's bad side.
I'm more sore at the meth manufacturers whose perfidy put my precious pseudoephedrine behind the pharmacy counter. It's not that it's hard to get---you still don't need a prescription---but it sucks to stand in line when your head is lopsided and falling off from all the gnome punching. Damn you, drug fiends! Bad enough you kill people, destroy families, ruin lives, leave parents with no children and children with no parents---but you've also inconvenienced me! If only Mother Nature would strike down you and your little meth cookeries. But not just now---the thunder is more than I can handle.
