CSotD: Friday Frivolity
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But if your name is Safeguard American Voter Eligibility Act, your dreams just got shattered, because there aren’t enough Republicans to get you passed, or even enough to get rid of the filibuster rule and do it with a mere majority.
Sing us a song about how a bill becomes toast.
Another blow to Dear Leader’s cunning plans: A judge of the US District Court, Northern District of Georgia, has ordered the ballots and other election information taken by the feds returned to the Fulton County Board of Registration and Elections.
Tough luck. Joyce Vance explains both news items, but now I’m going to celebrate with funny stuff instead of politics.
If these ICE bullies show up at my local polling place, I’ll sure know it. I’ve signed up to work the election, and I’ll be one of the people you show your ID to — just an ID, not your passport or birth certificate — before you get a ballot.
I’ve done it before and, like serving on a jury, it’s an interesting way to get a look behind the curtain to find out how stuff really works. It makes it even more laughable to think anyone is monkeying with the results, because a lot of checking and confirming goes on before the results, and the ballots, are sent to HQ.
There’s a story, almost certainly apocryphal, that Frederick the Great ordered buttons be sewn on the cuffs of soldiers’ uniforms to make them quit wiping their noses on their sleeves. But however it came about, we were all taught not to do that.
Then our kids were taught to sneeze into their elbows, which, as Red realizes, simply moves the mess up about four inches.
I’m a noncombatant in this one, because I usually have a snotrag stuck in a back pocket, and not one of those wimpy folded linen things. Those you just carry to hand to a maiden who is crying, and it would be better not to make her cry in the first place, you big jerk.
No, a gen-u-wine bandana that you can sneeze into or blow your nose into or use to wipe down the park bench for the both of you. Though not that last one if she’s seen you doing the other two.
Caught Sherman’s Lagoon showing its own age with a joke about an old fish. I miss my old flip phone because it was easier to carry than my modern slim brick style phone, and I realize that makes me as much a living fossil as the coelacanth.
Except that I also know flip phones are back, and they’re very popular with Gen Z. Yet another time when kids are in tune with their grandparents than they are with Mom and Dad.
I don’t deal well either with phone systems or with Uber. I don’t think anyone deals well with phone systems, and I’m at least hip enough to realize that I need to cool my jets when I finally get through to a human, because it’s not their fault that the process has whipped me into a frenzy.
Especially since most of the time, I’m calling about something that has me in a lousy mood already, and that isn’t their fault, either.
Though if the company has outfitted them with a list of mandatory standard replies that don’t address the problem, well, they should go find out how to operate a spatula instead.
As for Uber, that’s mostly a city thing, so I’ve only used it a few times. I’m batting .500, with a couple of interesting rides with nice drivers and a couple where the guy parks halfway down the block and expects you to magically know he’s your ride. But I haven’t compiled a statistically significant sample.
I got a laugh out of this Arctic Circle, because everybody thinks they’re above average in nearly everything except possibly math. However, I’m neutral on self-driving cars.
For one thing, I like driving. I’ve even got a standard transmission, and you can’t always find those anymore. I suspect that people who don’t want an automatic transmission are probably not the best prospects for a car with automatic everything.
The other is that I’m hoping my little Honda Fit is my last car. It’s not that I’m expecting to die before it does, but I’m expecting to lose a lot of my mojo before it falls apart. I wouldn’t be able to afford a new car now, anyway, even if I were planning on becoming one of those 25 mph road blocks.
Come to think of it, though, a self-driving car would probably cruise along at highway speed and scare the hell out of any old gaffer who was sitting hopeless inside, desperately pushing buttons, changing radio stations and turning the windshield wipers on and off.
I like my Honda, but I can’t see over half the vehicles on the road. However, I figure if the trend continues, I’ll be able to see under them.
Should have used this sooner; it’s from last week’s arc. But Alex’s handing out of cards to lousy parkers is something I’ve wanted to do, not only for the line-straddlers, but for people who park at the end of the row where there is no parking space.
The problem these days is the proliferation of armed screwballs. Even putting a “parking pig” card on their windshield could touch them off.
I miss the days when such boneheads were unarmed and you could mess with them safely. Back at the turn of the 70s, I used to play a game on the thruway that I called “Fighter Escort.”
I had a BMW 2002, but they were rare enough that people took them for Datsuns. If I got some obnoxious hotshot tailgating behind me, I’d go his speed until I got to an 18-wheeler lumbering along.
Then I’d become the Fighter Escort and stay beside the truck at its speed, blocking the speedster behind me. I’d stick there until the tailgater started flashing his lights and so forth, and then I’d drop the hammer on my little Beemer and disappear.
Beep-Beep yourself, MF.
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