"The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated." (Mark Twain)'
The ole ranch hand duly commemorated advancing age this flu season by obtaining his flu vaccination in a timely manner.
Secure in the knowledge that the Grim Reaper would once again be stalled, the fat boy strolled into the winter sunset with a smile.....until Black Death descended with a vengeance one month later?
Yeah, the last few days have found your haggard/humble country bumpkin contemplating such delightful topics as:
1. Who could be conned into serving as a pall bearers?
2. Will the bride ignore pleas to NOT go to Eternity burdened by a suit/tie?
3. Will old "enemies" show up at the services to verify the blessing of the event?
4. Will there be beer in the Hereafter?
5. Will the number of attendees equal the number of facebook friends....Naw?
Anywho.....tamiflu (and a bucket of other miracle drugs) finally slowed the pace of self-help funeral planning.
Accordingly, it seems the Divine Creator has spared the ranch hand's sorry hide one mo' time.
Now if they could just create a vaccination for "dumass"?
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Monday, December 17, 2012
Smokey and other BS Artists
Ms. Eva recently posted a tasty morsel related to "event boundaries". (wrestlingwithretirement.com)
Seems that academic psycho-who-sis-es (plural of "babble-what-the-hey) postulated that passing thru a physical doorway (in any structure) creates a cerebral partition. Said "partition" formulates a "clean slate" for the purpose of separating one set of thoughts and memories from the next.
To break this concept down into the basic East Texas version....ya gotta first visualize a country squirrel on a hot summer day evaluatin' his road crossing traffic options upon the approach of multiple vehicles (while said nutcracker is astraddle the center line).
Does our wannabe Olympic sprinter want to dodge right or left...OK, left..no right...no left/ right/right/right/left....ARRGGGGHHH...splat.
As Smokey the Bear says...."Remember, only you can prevent an event boundary"!
Seems that academic psycho-who-sis-es (plural of "babble-what-the-hey) postulated that passing thru a physical doorway (in any structure) creates a cerebral partition. Said "partition" formulates a "clean slate" for the purpose of separating one set of thoughts and memories from the next.
To break this concept down into the basic East Texas version....ya gotta first visualize a country squirrel on a hot summer day evaluatin' his road crossing traffic options upon the approach of multiple vehicles (while said nutcracker is astraddle the center line).
Does our wannabe Olympic sprinter want to dodge right or left...OK, left..no right...no left/ right/right/right/left....ARRGGGGHHH...splat.
As Smokey the Bear says...."Remember, only you can prevent an event boundary"!
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
HINDER DESKS
The ole ranch hand was borned and raised under rather modest circumstances in Wright City.
Only one black and white TV in the house with only one channel available (when the weather was clear). No telephone. No microwave. No skills with artificial intelligence whatsoever. You get the idea?
Accordingly, the fat boy did not touch a computer until into his third decade of life.
Since that ill fated day, your still neophyte "nerd" has progressed to ownership of multiple personal machines.
Another words, the country bumpkin can (on occasion) navigate the cyberspacial world and function (sorta?) on-line.
The "fly" in this "soup" is that for every action, there is an equal and opposite malfunction generated by yours truly. This malady, unfortunately, requires the all too frequent call to a so-called "Help Desk" in some foreign land.
Called a toll free number this day and 'splained my problem to a "real person". Was only told, "hold for a moment", before a "Punch 1 for this and 2 for that" serenade started.
Punched "2" and got a recorded message to, "Call another number"????
Called the "other number" and got a "real person", but have yet to figger out their native language. Lead pipe cinch it weren't English (and heard all manner of world-wide dialects from "help" in the background chatter?????)
Went into detail 'bout the problem at issue, answered a bucket-load of questions, and was told, "I am going to make you very happy, but.....our computer system is down for maintenance and you will have to call back another time".
So here is the question....should I unplug the computer, pack it like when purchased, and take it by to the store to tell them I am too stupid to have a computer...or should the good ole U.S. of A. staff their own damn help desks????
WAKE UP AMERICA!!!!
Only one black and white TV in the house with only one channel available (when the weather was clear). No telephone. No microwave. No skills with artificial intelligence whatsoever. You get the idea?
Accordingly, the fat boy did not touch a computer until into his third decade of life.
Since that ill fated day, your still neophyte "nerd" has progressed to ownership of multiple personal machines.
Another words, the country bumpkin can (on occasion) navigate the cyberspacial world and function (sorta?) on-line.
The "fly" in this "soup" is that for every action, there is an equal and opposite malfunction generated by yours truly. This malady, unfortunately, requires the all too frequent call to a so-called "Help Desk" in some foreign land.
Called a toll free number this day and 'splained my problem to a "real person". Was only told, "hold for a moment", before a "Punch 1 for this and 2 for that" serenade started.
Punched "2" and got a recorded message to, "Call another number"????
Called the "other number" and got a "real person", but have yet to figger out their native language. Lead pipe cinch it weren't English (and heard all manner of world-wide dialects from "help" in the background chatter?????)
Went into detail 'bout the problem at issue, answered a bucket-load of questions, and was told, "I am going to make you very happy, but.....our computer system is down for maintenance and you will have to call back another time".
So here is the question....should I unplug the computer, pack it like when purchased, and take it by to the store to tell them I am too stupid to have a computer...or should the good ole U.S. of A. staff their own damn help desks????
WAKE UP AMERICA!!!!
Friday, December 7, 2012
MAKIN' MAGIC
The ole fat boy and his beautiful bride took the notion evenin' last to gather up the five year old nephew and three year old niece and make some "magic" thru the decoration of Christmas sugar cookies.
Engendered by family love and innocent in intention,this was a great idea that would surely become legendary in memory.
The holiday pastries were carefully cooked to perfection and the "sprinkles" and icing was evenly divided between two card tables to separate the "combatants" during the blessed event.
Picked them eager puppies up at day-care, transported them to the ranch, and launched the festivities without delay.
Then the "plan" began to disintegrate a bit???
It seems that grabbing plastic spoons and sloppin' icing down one's throat is infinitely more fun than carefully layering it onto a cookie?
And who would have thought that fancy colored sprinkles judiciously divided into little plastic bathroom sipping cups would be such awesome shot glasses to "chug" sugar charged energy fuel with unbridled enthusiasm????
Add pretzels to the "reindeer head" cookies"...NAW...throw them at your sibling at the neighboring table while giggling incomprehensible glee????
At the end of the evening it could easily be said it was "fun"...to have the experience....!!!!
Now if the ranch hand can figger how to get the tractor in the house to round up all that "fun" that ended up on the floor???
Engendered by family love and innocent in intention,this was a great idea that would surely become legendary in memory.
The holiday pastries were carefully cooked to perfection and the "sprinkles" and icing was evenly divided between two card tables to separate the "combatants" during the blessed event.
Picked them eager puppies up at day-care, transported them to the ranch, and launched the festivities without delay.
Then the "plan" began to disintegrate a bit???
It seems that grabbing plastic spoons and sloppin' icing down one's throat is infinitely more fun than carefully layering it onto a cookie?
And who would have thought that fancy colored sprinkles judiciously divided into little plastic bathroom sipping cups would be such awesome shot glasses to "chug" sugar charged energy fuel with unbridled enthusiasm????
Add pretzels to the "reindeer head" cookies"...NAW...throw them at your sibling at the neighboring table while giggling incomprehensible glee????
At the end of the evening it could easily be said it was "fun"...to have the experience....!!!!
Now if the ranch hand can figger how to get the tractor in the house to round up all that "fun" that ended up on the floor???
Monday, December 3, 2012
PRIDE
Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. (Proverbs 16:18)
The ole fat boy and his beautiful child bride have spent the past year faithfully toiling in the salt mine (local exercise gym).
Yeah, the ranch hand has often grumbled and made lame-butt excuses bout not goin', but the little woman always lowered her voice, raised her eyebrows....and well hell, got my sorry self to the dungeon.
Slowly and painfully, your sextarian age scribe progressed from embarassing his ownself...to actually making progress on the track and in the weight room.
This fine morn found the Olympic wannabe chuggin' round the gym oval like a steam engine. Head held high, chest out, arms and legs pumpin' and churnin' like a threshing machine. Such was the magnificence of this display of physical prowess that all fellow athletes were eyeballin' the ranch hand with obvious envy.
Then reality reared it ugly head and slapped ole dumass up the side of the head with the fact that they was starin' because he was stylin' in his size 13 "croc" (fur lined") deluxe HOUSESHOES???
Dang that "fall" from grace was embarassing!
The ole fat boy and his beautiful child bride have spent the past year faithfully toiling in the salt mine (local exercise gym).
Yeah, the ranch hand has often grumbled and made lame-butt excuses bout not goin', but the little woman always lowered her voice, raised her eyebrows....and well hell, got my sorry self to the dungeon.
Slowly and painfully, your sextarian age scribe progressed from embarassing his ownself...to actually making progress on the track and in the weight room.
This fine morn found the Olympic wannabe chuggin' round the gym oval like a steam engine. Head held high, chest out, arms and legs pumpin' and churnin' like a threshing machine. Such was the magnificence of this display of physical prowess that all fellow athletes were eyeballin' the ranch hand with obvious envy.
Then reality reared it ugly head and slapped ole dumass up the side of the head with the fact that they was starin' because he was stylin' in his size 13 "croc" (fur lined") deluxe HOUSESHOES???
Dang that "fall" from grace was embarassing!
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