Mr. Boffo is a constant celebration of dumbasses, often, as in this case, accompanied by the side-glance of a woman who realizes what an idiot she married.
Granted, whether this dork knows what the Magna Carta was, he clearly knows when it was signed.
Which makes me wonder if he knows that, when the Constitution was written, Thomas Jefferson was our ambassador to France, 3,706 miles from Philadelphia.
Not everyone does.
Well, at least he knows that Jefferson is dead. Wharton should be proud of their blue-eyed boy.
I love the way he strings together inane clichés like “late, great,” and pointlessly tells us that the NYC Council Chamber is “magnificent.”
He reminds me of when I was in talk radio and people would call in and try to sound sober and intelligent when they were clearly neither.
This truly is the Land of Opportunity, where — obviously — anyone can grow up to be president.
Never mind. I’m not in the mood for politics.
Though, as Betty (AMS) and Bub discuss the possibility of having outgrown fun, I’m not sure I’m in the mood for fun, either.
But Betty has a point in that last panel: It’s not so much a case of not wanting to have fun anymore as a matter of no longer fooling yourself into thinking something’s fun just because other people insist that it is.
Case in point: Some people don’t like roller coasters but, like Edison Lee (KFS)‘s father, get talked into riding them on the premise that they are fun.
For my part, I love wooden roller coasters, but I don’t like metal ones. Wooden coasters contain some sway, and I understand they are purposely engineered and maintained to look and feel slightly undependable, which adds an intellectual level to the fear they inspire.
Metal coasters just whip you around and knowing how well-designed they are removes the fear, leaving only the physical pain of being pitched from side to side. It’s like letting someone work you over with a club, which isn’t my idea of fun.
Though, obviously, they wouldn’t exist if my idea of fun were universal.
Also in the “different strokes” camp, Pam hits a truth in Brewster Rockit (Tribune).
It is indeed odd that we’ve agreed, as a group, that mimes are obnoxious, while, as she notes, we post wordless icons as if we were making some kind of intelligent comment.
Emojis began as a way of signaling intent in a world of text where sarcasm and humor were not obvious. They provided the smile or wink you might have added in person.
But they morphed into a humongous collection of trivial emotions that now take the place of the intelligent comments to which they were formerly attached.
They aren’t even the worst of it: I wish social media had kill lists we could use to eliminate animated gifs from our feed. I’d consign Spit-Take Girl and that little finger-waving baby straight to the trash.
And, no, that’s not subjective, like metal roller coasters. It’s more like listening to talk show drunks who think they’re making sense.
I’m somewhat tolerant of people who don’t like self-check registers, since, like the fellow in this Real Life Adventures (AMS), I’ve been tempted to walk away from a balky machine and let the stock clerks re-shelve my order.
But they seem to know that: Most stores with self-check have someone tending them, in a four-to-one or six-to-one ratio. One of ours doesn’t assign an attendant but is quick to come when you hit the “help” button.
Given that I “market” rather than “shop” — that is, I go often and buy the day’s food rather than stocking up once a week — I’d rather whip through the self-check than line up with five things at a staffed register behind people with full carts.
Particularly in the pandemic, when people load up as if they were headed for their fallout shelters.
What I’d like to know is who’s behind all the social-justice hooha on Facebook in which self-check is denounced for costing jobs. I suspect it’s a union, and I support unions, but there’s a point at which certain positions become largely redundant.
Blame me: I use the ATM far more often than I go in and use a bank teller. I pump my own gas. I book airline tickets and hotel rooms online. I even drive through the plate-reader on the turnpike rather than seeking a booth with an attendant.
And still everyone is short-staffed.
Switching to jobs we’ll never be rid of, Pros & Cons (KFS) takes me back to 1975, and a freelance job where the people who hired me got fired and the company declined to pay my $1700 invoice.
It was the principle as much as the money: I swore I wouldn’t find myself sitting on the porch at the Home one day, thinking I should have sued the bastards.
So I sued the bastards, with the help of the attorney brother-in-law of a friend.
They countersued for $10k, claiming my shoddy work had damaged their reputation.
Happily, we had conclusive proof that their evidence was faked and they folded 24 hours before the case went to trial.
Still, countersuits are a powerful intimidation weapon, particularly when your opponent doesn’t have a buddy working on contingency.
Sticking in that time period for a moment, I suppose Tony Carrillo is too young to know that, back then, the days of the week were printed on women’s underpants, not their shirts as seen in today’s F-Minus (AMS).
Which I remember because then-wife and I joked about producing a set that, instead of Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday, said January-February-March.
Damn. We’d have made a fortune.
Go read this
Here are the past two days of Wallace the Brave, and I don’t know where he’s headed, but today’s episode makes it look epic.
Also go read this
You might notice that I often feature First Dog on the Moon here, sometimes just a snippet, sometimes in its entirety. You also might notice that sometimes he’s intensely political, sometimes he’s intensely silly.
This is one of those silly ones, matching my mood of the day. Go read it.
It’s getting to the time of year when fear is fun, as Ub Iwerks knew.
3 thoughts on “CSotD: Afraid I’m in a funny mood”
We had our first experience with automated tolls last month, crossing the Ohio River on our way to Georgia and back.
After weeks of not receiving a bill from the Kentucky toll authority, we tried going to their website to see how much we owed, but our vehicle was still not in their system. Nor could we figure out when our payment might be due, or whether we would eventually receive two separate invoices a week apart.
The Kentucky toll crew eventually found us and we sent payment.
The charge has cleared our bank account; we’re still awaiting confirmation that our payment was received.
I pump my own gas.
Is there anywhere outside of Oregon with an alternative to pumping your own?
The PA turnpike did away with manned toll booths over a year ago – all charges are by electronic E-ZPass or by Toll by Plate, where they mail you an invoice.
Ed Rush – New Jersey prohibits pumping your own gas, and I discovered (from Wikipedia) that the towns of Weymouth, MA and Huntington, NY also ban pumping your own.
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