"The punters know that the horse named Morality rarely gets past the post, whereas the nag named Self-interest always runs a good race." ~Gough Whitlam, writing in the London Daily Telegraph on October 19, 1989.

 Australia's 21st Prime Minister, Edward Gough Whitlam,

 11 July 1916 - 21 Oct 2014 RIP

From Leah's Golden Thoughts

Ring-ring

Dateline Indianapolis
News at Six

Reader:  The superintendent said the cellphone policy change was necessary because parents need to be able to contact their children.

Me:  Bull oney.  I taught school for thirty-one years, and so far as I know there was never a student who had a telephone with him.

I suppose that might have been Dick Tracy in the back row holding his wrist to his ear.  Doubt it.

Shopping for Sundries

Little grey-haired lady, five foot nothing, in front of me at the checkout.  Writes a check while the clerk is ringing up the goods.

"Thirty-nine eighty-nine."  The woman completes the check, and as she hands it to the clerk she observes that "It is going to be seventy-five today!"

"Who's seventy-five?"  LGL looks puzzled.  I interject.

"The temperature.  The temperature is going to be seventy-five today."  Then I go on, "Some of us wish we were seventy-five again."

LGL turns to look at me, smiles, and nods her head.

And the Beat Goes On

More "smart phone" antics.

Mrs. W's smart phone has taken to rapping.  No, not that kind of rapping, but rather the kind Poe observed in "The Raven."

"Knoknoknok."  Seriously.  For no discernible reason.

She fusses with it for, oh, a long time. (Remember the "time saving" mantra when computers were being foisted on introduced to us?)  And then she called tech assistance, who, long conversation reveals, knows no more than she does.  She lays phone on table and goes about other more pressing business.

The dog is lying on his rug.  "Knoknoknok."

Dog jumps up, "Barkbarkbark!"  Which is his normal response to someone at the door.

"Growl!"  Which is my response to this whole business.

Smart?

Whilst sitting at the computer attempting to work up a blog post, Mrs. W is sitting across the room with her "smart phone."  I hear

"Say again.  I did not understand."  A few seconds, then

"Say again.  I did not understand."  Then Mrs. W's voice

"Shut yourself off.  I don't want to talk to you now."

"Goodbye."

The woman is not only talking to a device, she is having a conversation with the blinking thing.

Oh, dear.  Perhaps this responsive thing is the reason she is recently paying more attention to it than she is to me?

Cryin' in Their Beer

I have heard that incensed fans who paid bucks to attend the Toby Keith show the other evening want their money back.  Want their money back?  They are surprised that a man whose repertoire consists largely of songs in praise of the joys of booze is too drunk to properly perform his songs?

If you are one of those fans, shut up, already.  You got what you paid for.

Caveat emptor.

Sadly, This is for Real

Saginaw, Michigan

Pay your last respects from the convenience of your car.
Drive-thru viewing of the dearly departed.

Nothing says me, me, me like a pretend-visit to a funeral home.
"I am still here, and you are not.  Nanner, nanner."  *Vroom*
  

Hop on Soda

Mrs. Warr and I were finishing our supper, a nice bowl of chili.  I got up to get a cuppa.  She said, "Could you get me a soda, please?"

I reached into the cabinet, set the bicarbonate box next to her bowl on the table.  I said, "You'll want a glass of water to take that with?"

I was being totally sincere and trying to assist her digestive process.  She accused me of being a smart-aleck.  "You knew," she stated inaccurately and incorrectly, "that I wanted a root beer."

She did not ask for a root beer.  She asked for what she got: soda.

[Small differences in cultural backgrounds make huge differences in communication.  I have never referred to pop as "soda."  And conversely, . . . ]

Desperation

< 16

Seems our senators, who have nothing better to do, are debating the issue of whether or not to call for a name change of the Washington Red Skins.

Only sixteen of the senators have come out specifically stating that they think it none of Congress's business.  This might lead one to believe that there are sixteen senators intelligent enough to represent the people in Congress, until, that is, one looks at some of their stances on other topics, which narrows the field considerably.

Conclusion: The number of capable senators < 16.

(And when did it become the purview of the government to name businesses in the private sector?)