It’s A Bot Time

It’s been a while since I got into a battle of wills with a fake person.

Thank goodness – ok, alrightness – for Words With Friends.

If you are patient enough, “someone” will surely come along and help you out. The most recent assistance they are offering is investment help.

But since these are fake people, they just keep going. And let’s face it, I’m the victim here, too polite to refuse the chat request of a stranger – in case they are an actual person; too stubborn to forfeit the game and take a statistical hit.

So I just amuse myself.

Oh, Ann…

Seriously, some people watch movies for fun, I do this.

It’s A Bot Time

But At Least My D!ck Is Bigger Than His…

Or so his actions would indicate.

Here’s the pre-set up (Right? Just settle in, it’s one of those Galby stories):

I was doing my Lyft thing. I’m really trying to go from driving 4/week to 3 while still making my weekly goals. Because 20-ish hours/week with Lyft beats any fucking job that I’ve ever had. Seriously, it’s like every other job I’ve ever had was my personal Ike Turner by comparison.

And if you don’t get that, google it – but thanks for following my blog instead of doing your arithmetic homework.

Anywho, the bogeyman here is that when I get bored, I can just hop in the car for a change of pace. Also: entertainment. Also, also: what, I should exercise when I’m bored? Pish.

So, I’ve been playing around with my preferred schedule of having a couple days of driving and a couple days off. Lather, rinse, repeat. On top of that, balancing demand to maximize my time.

Interesting side bar, once I started driving again I found I was in high demand. Rides stacked up one after another – the caveat being that drivers were so scarce (I don’t want to explain why – it turns racism in American politics on its ass…ok, I do want to explain why – just not here) that I was driving 15-20 minutes to pick up a passenger. That made my customer service heart absolutely ache. So I was glad to be out there doing.

Recently, though, demand has leveled off – a good sign that people felt secure enough to leave their homes to work. I no longer felt like the last Lyft driver on the planet. Which is good since riders were waiting 15+ minutes less frequently now. I dunno why I feel responsible for the overall customer experience here, I just do.

See also: why I don’t drive for rapey Uber.

Surprise! None of that actually has to do with the size of my figurative penis.

I’d say that this kind of does – except it would make me sound really bad in the wrong context, ie: the unofficial language of ‘Murica – though, during my impromptu shift today, I picked up an essential nurse from OHSU after her shift. OHSU is located on a hilltop – like, a big one.

If I knew I was dying, that’s the hospital I’d want to be taken to.

Further from Hell, you see. I know, not the rationale you expected. Have we met? Hehe.

The thing I like about delivering or fetching people from work there is that these folks are essential, even without a pandemic. And being a hospital atop an idyllic mountaintop in Portland means real estate is at a premium – and they don’t waste it on parking lots.

One rider told me she’s been there 9 years and is still not in the top 1000 on the parking spot wait list.

But.

The hospital has a variety of programs to incentivize employees to take alternative transportation – including Lyft credits. Well, “credits”.

Naturally, I do a brisk business on the hill.

Today, I picked up an essential scrub heading home after work who had a 24 minute drive. It was 3:30-ish in the afternoon. In the last week, this has been well within the window of when all the locked down peeps have given in to escaping their shut-in shackles to demonstrate how driving on a freeway is not like riding a bicycle.

On top of that, this was one of those “three seasons in one day” types of days. We had sun, rain and – while I was driving my scrub across town – hail.

We took I-84 for most of our freeway transit. The important thing to know here is that it’s a serpentine three lane freeway in both directions, most lanes grooved by decades of asswipes who kept their snow tires on too long.

Mix in some of that hail and biblical rain and you’ve got a challenging drive.

Throw a micro-penis into the mix and, well, you’ve now surpassed shit-show level shenanigans.

I-84, aka: the Banfield, stretches West to East across Portland’s east side betwixt I-5 along the Willamette River and I-205, which runs N-S through a part of town called Felony Flats.

It’s 4.8 miles, this Banfield stretch of road. The 84 continues on past the 205 (we Portlanders really hate including the “I” in our freeway designations) toward the regrettable Gresham and then on up the Gorge toward the heavenly hamlet of Hood River.

4.8 miles is, as some who’ve driven it may not know, Portland’s mathematical measurement of Absolute Hell.

Why?

Micropenis.

Seriously, my only explanation.

Knowing I had the full ~5 miles of the Banfield to contend with, I moved over to the far left to avoid the cluster-coitus that is merging on Portland’s freeways.

A reasonable plan, “passing lane only” enthusiasts notwithstanding.

Sadly, there was what I can only assume was a person suffering a stroke while driving five cars ahead of me in that lane. It was so bad that people in the far right lane – even with their merging maladies – were outpacing us. I decided after three miles to get into the center lane. Realizing I had fewer than two miles before my exit to 205, I left my blinker on to move into the right lane for my exit.

It was a simple plan to execute – I needed only wait for the car on my passenger side forward flank to clear with a safe distance between us to execute my lane change. After that, I moved right from the center to right lane.

Mind you (foreshadowing!) my blinker had been on this whole time.

Yes, I use my blinkers.

For whatever reason, this micropenis driver interprets my signal the same way a color blind bull interprets a red flag. In much the same way that a single person attempting dating would – full steam ahead!

The result in both scenarios was the same: the wronged person ends up shouldering the blame.

In this case, that manifested with a horn.

Then an aggressive lane change, acceleration and swift cut off (with no signal) followed by a one-fingered salute.

For my part, I refused to look ahead with an intensity that belied the existence of another driver, so I looked blithely toward him as he aggressively passed me.

I think that made him mad.

As did my refusal to return his hand gestures.

Have I ever mentioned how often I’m complimented – bewilderingly – on my habit of keeping both hands on the wheel? It’s true. I do.

The end result of this tale was – as the skies absolutely pissed rain down – that this inverted prick of a human slammed on his brakes after cutting me off. While having only one hand on the wheel, since the other was displaying his IQ.

He hydroplaned.

Only briefly, thankfully.

Long enough, though, that my recalcitrant conversationalist passenger commented on my defensive driving skills.

I think my active distancing only further enraged this hella fella, since – and I couldn’t make this up – when another driver cut into what was clearly his personal lane, the whole damn thing lathered, rinsed and goddamn repeated.

This joker was so focused on sticking it to a could-care-less-Xtopher that he almost had his second accident in as many minutes.

Don’t worry, though. He whipped out of the right hand lane and into the center to pass that other fool and aggressively cut them off.

Take that, presumably reasonably blessed-below-the-belt other driver!

Sheesh.

Trump’s motorcade driver really needs to get back to DC. It’s not like Trump would ever set foot in Oregon, anyway. As a matter of fact, if he did ever want to reach his base here in Oregon, it would probably be easier to fly into Boise and cross the Idaho/Oregon border to reach his hayseed base in Eastern Oregon than it would be to risk seeing the pussy-hat-clad libtards in Portland that would line his route eastward from PDX.

Anyway…after all that – basically announcing to the I-84 world that he had a two inch penis – when fully aroused – and a four foot foreskin, it turns out that this abortion of a human didn’t even need to be in the right hand lane, anyway. Just as the lane exited from the 84 to the 205, this unreliable COVID test of a human whipped into the center lane to hurry home toward Gresham.

All of his lane jockeying and hostile driving was for naught. If he’d just been in the center lane to begin with, all of his angst would have been avoided.

Stupid American.

If not for the potential for negative collateral damage, I’d say he should keep on driving like an asshole. I’m sure the odds will catch up with him soon enough – I just can’t stand the thought of a decent human being being taken out with him.

Alas.

Seriously, though…road rage was what this guy missed after two months in lockdown?

But At Least My D!ck Is Bigger Than His…

Dos Peliculas

Here’s the Quarantine Level of procrastination I’ve achieved. I am openly admitting that I can do one thing per day.

Now, don’t think this means I have to decide between showering and eating. I’m factoring those basic activities – that I almost always succeed at on a daily basis, almost – out of the equation. Likewise, involuntary biological functions like breathing and pooping. Although, I had Chipotle today, so let’s put that last one on standby for a bit, eh?

No, these are what you’d call larger scale accomplishments that I’m succeeding at in the singular.

Writing.

Exercising.

Lyfting.

Things that require a chunk of time.

The pisser is that I started the quarantine off with promise.

I exercised consistently every third day for the first month. I took 5+ mile walks around town on my off days. The amount of time I’d put into being at least somewhat physical each day was anywhere from two to four hours, and I felt great. But then I deprioritized exercise – claiming an off week and considering what changes I wanted to put into the routine after my test week. Never went back.

I participated and completed NaNoWriMo’s April writing camp, exceeding the 50k word threshold and getting to within what I’d say is two chapters of completing my first draft on a new novel. I’d easily spend four hours a day considering how uncomfortable my barstools are while tapping out anywhere from 2-5k words each day. I even went into that goal determined to come out of it and go into editing my second non-fiction book, but that has also gone to hell.

I’d drive four days a week, committing to a 10 ride goal and usually spending about four hours, minimum in the car on my drive days. I actually have been focused lately on stretching my driving shifts so I can tweak my week to three days of driving while still achieving my weekly financial goal. That’s been more miss than hit, though. I’ve only hit what would be the revised daily dollar goal twice in the last two weeks. Regardless, though, on days where I actively choose not to write or exercise, I’ll generally make myself drive.

That part isn’t so bad. I’ve finally started making extra principle payments on Angela – the new to me BMW, because cars need names! – and finally bought a router/modem combo so that I can tell Comcast to shove theirs up their ass. If I recall correctly – dicey, I know – they charge either $11 or $14/month to rent theirs. Whichever it is, what I spent on those monthly charges in a year easily amounts to more than I gave Bezos to buy my own. Even if I have to replace my personal modem every year, I’ll save money. However, I’ve had my current Comcast modem for three years. You’d think they’d write it off as paid off at this point.

Bastards.

As a result of this lack of motivation and accomplishment, I’m watching movies that have been buried in my queue for friggin’ ever.

Hardly an accomplishment to offset what I’m not accomplishing. But, here I am – notably dragging you along with me now, dear reader.

Last week I checked two such movies off my list – hence the name of this entry. In Spanish, no less.

The two movies were 2012’s Perks of Being a Wallflower and 2017’s Death of Stalin, both of which I had wanted to see in the theaters when they were out. In each of those instances, I had also failed to motivate myself to accomplishing a simple goal.

I guess in that frame, maybe watching them is an accomplishment to crow about.

Especially Death of Stalin, as it turns out. What an ordeal.

Let me tell you, if you’ve ever felt proud for saving $15 on a movie ticket by not seeing a movie, you know how I feel now. This show had such promise for me. A movie about an actual historical event. During an oppressively and globally sad era, no less. And it was billed as a comedy!

Right up my alley. But then they threw in bonuses like some of my favorite performers – Jason Isaacs, Michael Palin, Steve Buscemi and the now disgraced Jeffrey Tambor – doing experimental acting by playing real life Russian political players but using essentially their native accents. So, you’d think I’d have loved it.

It was so boring.

I was looking forward to something close to Stooge level neurotic bumbling through these real life occurrences as these actors portrayed Stalin’s closest confidants attempting to manage the situation his death created.

No.

Just like quarantine is two months (and counting) of my life I won’t get back, this was two hours of my life I’d like a do over for.

Here’s hoping The Death of Trump is a much better movie – that can’t be made soon enough. Keep popping those hydrochloroquil pills, champ!

Perks of Being a Wallflower, on the other reel, was a delightful surprise of a movie. Ezra Klein, Emma Watson and Logan Lehrman in basically introductory lead roles for the two males and Emma’s first post-Potter Star turn. I was kind of irked at myself for depriving myself of the experience for nearly a decade. It was truly a movie that I could identify with:

An out gay High School character – representing for me the freedom I didn’t have available to myself in HS.

Small town life in the 90s or early aughts.

Unrequited love.

Basic Anywhere, USA HS angst.

A great soundtrack.

Writing that captured a moment but pulled you into the story – at least for me – as more than an observer.

Oh! And actual mix tapes.

Actually, I plan to watch it again – and not just for the procrastination value of that act.

It was a good example of what procrastination can result in – seeing these two films.

On the one hand, I put off something that I’d wanted to do that resulted in a sense of relief at having deprived myself in the moment.

But on the other hand, the way I felt at having missed Perks for so long…well, it’s giving me something to ruminate on concerning my procrastinatorial (Chrisism) ways.

Getting stuck in my head over that oughta kill a few days…

How about you? Are you still posting pics of bread you baked or the Caldona Coffee you’ve made or are you starting to struggle to keep yourself and your discipline away from the couch these days?

Dos Peliculas

TIL #11: Hyperbole

Maybe this isn’t a Today I Learned so much as it is a Today I Figured Something Out. Yet another thing you old bastards have been keeping from me!

Y’know, those little a-ha! moments. They really are fewer and further between than I’d have figured as a know-it-all kid. As a matter of fact, surrounded as I find myself by such stupid Americans, I’m surprised that there isn’t much more fanfare when it does happen.

Note to self: throw mental parade next time this happens, you earned it.

Like that time I finally got why it’s called a blow job. I’d simply been looking at it from the wrong <ahem> perspective.

Those types of a-ha moments. Or in that particular case, “ah-ah-aaaahhh-ha” moments.

Well, today…there I was, underthinking things when another one* hit me.

When I’m in a funk and spiraling downward, my older and wiser (just ask them, they’ll tell you) friends will tell me

It’s not that bad!

and I’ve always considered those to be words of encouragement. But as another deluge of Headlines-turned-Cautionary-Tales washed over me this morning, it hit me.

A-ha!

They must surely have been silently adding a word in order to not give away the surprise.

It’s not (only) that bad!

It’s worse.

Just wait.

Much, much…worse.

It’s funny, too. As I’ve been aging – involuntarily, obviously – I’ve found myself warning younger people. When they say something that I know (now) to be naive, I’ll whisper conspiratorially

Listen, I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but…

I figure it’s safe, knowing that they likely stopped listening to me when I said the word “listen”, because what could I possibly know, right?

On the other hand, sometimes I like to co-opt my old frenemy Dan Savage’s lil chestnut of wisdom and just push people down a little harder when they say something naive

It gets worse

I really like that one, since I think I mentioned people don’t really listen anyway. I just get my lil chuckle either way. Either because I can tell they didn’t listen and heard what they assumed they would hear or they did hear and…that look!

I don’t give away the surprise. I just leave the warning hanging there, sagely. However, when it finally does happen, I then get to say

Don’t say I didn’t warn ya

I’m just kidding. I don’t really do that.

Oops. Look at me…leaving words out, just like the grumpy old man that I am.

That should have said

I’m (mostly) just kidding

I do say those things, but just for fun.

My fun.

But since I’m old people humor me because I might be dangerous, we all get a good – if not awkward – chuckle.

The reality is that I turn my hyperbole on myself.

For.

Instance.

In the last couple weeks, a couple of my original blog buddies have poked their cute little heads back into the WordPress arena. It’s good to see old friends familiar avatars around this dusty old joint again.

In one of their returns – via comments on one of my blog posts and their blogosphere re-entry blog entry – we discussed the states of affair in his life.

Turns out he’s been having one lately. Or at least a low-key dating experience.

Graduated college.

Job searching.

Put on his – and this turn of phrase of his made me jealous because it’s really funny – COVID-15. But it’s ok, he says, because his beau likes him just the way he is.

Funny. When Myrt barfs on the floor, I clean it up. However, today I also learned that when I barf on the floor…I also clean it up.

Luckily, it was imaginary puke.

Anyway, in one of those moments of self-directed wry hyperbole – dryperbole? Chrisism – I thought to myself

Yeah, yeah…we get it – you’ve got a boyfriend

in faux exasperation – because secretly I’m a big emotional schmuck and it makes me happy when people begin relating.

But I went on to have this whole follow up conversation in my head

Some people just keep these things to themselves instead of blabbing them all over town

I said to myself.

For instance,

I said, mentally touching my pearls.

I like to keep these things to myself when I like a boy. I find that as soon as someone finds out they’re my boyfriend – pffft! – they’re gone.

Meh, wudyagundo – in my head I’m both my worst enemy and my best audience. It’s a bit crowded up there.

But I get a good chuckle out of that.

Anyway, if you ever find me letting hyperbole that you think should probably be silent out for a stroll, don’t be offended…try and enjoy it.

Because it’s probably gonna end up being right.

Yeah, I’m Ouisa.

*I’d just like to clarify, the whole blow job a-ha moment was back before the turn of the century…not recently.

TIL #11: Hyperbole

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before…

So, last night while I *wasn’t* sleeping – seriously, it was like…3 in the friggin’ AM – I wandered into this secret FaceBook group I belong to.

Trust me, I belong with these people.

And actually, it was 3:30. I remember Little Buddy checking my recent sleep habits from an earlier conversation today while we were enjoying what I referred to as a breakfast beer since it was the only thing I’d had by 4 PM today besides my energy drink. Waking up at noon puts your whole day into a surreal spiral.

Anywho…in the group, I found this post

Naturally, I laughed loud enough to make Mistress Myrtle look up at me from her position by my thigh.

Shut up, hooman. I need my 20 hours of sleep a day or your life is in jeopardy!

Like I needed that reminder.

And, as if you needed a reminder about my sense of humor. What one Silver Spoon Suitor from my days in Shittatle once referred to as “blue”. Ugh. Genteel people. Gawd save me.

But this post reminded me of an old joke. One of my faves. Me – a giver – felt compelled to share it. Since it’s a secret group, I’ll save you the trouble of trying to find it.

You’re all welcome. Don’t forget to pray for me on Sunday. Maybe say an ejaculation – as one misguided nun at my prep school unfortunately phrased a group prayer from our class in honor of an ailing priest at the Grabby Abbey.

This is my life people, and fortunately, that’s the closest I ever came to harassment during my Catholic School career. 😉

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before…

Pro-Tip

I was having socially distant beers with Filipina Fox recently – we were drinking in the park, surrounded camouflaged by homeless people milling about. She took the opportunity to ask my opinion on something that had been bugging her lately.

Food Delivery Apps.

“Easy”, I said. “Don’t.”

But, she explained her conflict – she is a more than competent cook, by the way – of wanting to support local business and be lazy convenience. But when she orders delivery, she gets mad that the restaurant has to pay a commission to the app, effectively removing the support she wants to provide. Plus, delivery drivers need the income, too.

I totally get that. All that.

However, working in banking as she does, specifically in a capacity where local, small businesses are her clients, she has seen the documentation of sales and expense restaurants incur as part of app based delivery services. The examples I’ve seen point toward that app portion of the fees being about 35% of the order value…and in food, that’s pretty much more than a restaurant’s profit margin. She wanted my opinion since when my Lyft Life gets a little too peopley or if there’s just no ride demand, she knows that I’ll flip on Postmates as an alternative.

Frankly, I really enjoy my untethered, non-professional gig jobs. The flexibility to work when I want, do what I want, yada-yada-yada…with no boss or corporate overlord to worry about. As an added bonus, both options allow me to flex a muscle I took for granted when I walked away from my retail career in disgust – namely: being in service to people.

Still, that a friend was demonstrating this level of hand-wringing worrying about how her actions impacted others made my little gig worker self feel appreciated in a way that most of my actual past bosses failed at.

Yet there I was, telling her to fuck worrying about me and my gig working ilk.

Why?

I was mad at Postmates, obviously.

Well, mad might be overselling it. But Postmates, I have observed in my last few attempts to customer them, has either been doing some shady shit or at least allowing it to happen. Since the reason for my disgust with retail was precisely that shady type of shit being allowed to fester versus holding people accountable to ethical standards…well, this observation bothered me.

So, I told the Filipina Fox my story.

The last few times I’ve ordered Postmates for my self, I’ve abandoned my order and found alternative forms of sustenance because I saw that Postmates wasn’t just making money on both ends, like apps do. They seemed to be actively price gouging.

Case in point:

I went to order from a local Chinese restaurant and found my favorite comfort food – Chef’s Special Fried Rice, which has shrimp, beef and chicken in it! – and added it to my order for $13.95. I thought that seemed kind of high, recalling that it was under $10 when I stumbled in there back in the good, old pre-COVID days and ordered at the bar, had a Heineken while I waited and left for under $20 with tip.

Then again, maybe I misremembered that since I’d had a few beers prior to walking in.

But then-then again, it is super yummy, so even at $13.95…worth it. So, I ordered it anyway. But just to make myself miserable, I googled Republic Cafe’s menu and, well…screw you, Uncle Bob.

Here’s why all that bothers me:

First, it seems to only happen with independent restaurants. When I’ve needed a Chipotle fix, those prices seem consistent with my prior in-restaurant orders. So, again, this is impacting small, local businesses.

Sidebar: I have noticed while driving, when I have to order and pay for something for a customer with my pre-paid Postmates card, that there are variations between what the app tells me the total should be and reality at national restaurants, but I don’t know what the customer is actually charged, so can’t definitively say that this doesn’t also happen with chain restaurants, too. But this sets up point number two pretty nicely.

Second, who knows whether this is a self-defense decision by the restaurant or something Postmates mandates. Regardless, even in the best case, the commission they are getting is off a higher priced menu, so they’re at least getting more for their 35% cut. If the best case here is that the restaurant is jacking their prices up 30% plus in order to offset the cost of selling through apps, well…that mitigates my friend’s concern, right?

Apps are still charging crazy delivery fees to the customer. Their other customer. Usually somewhere in the $3-5 range. So, on top of the $4-5 they would make on my $13.95 order from the restaurant, they add another $4-5 from the customer.

So, they’re making around $10 on each $15 order placed.

And I know, they promote restaurants with free or reduced delivery, too. I have no idea how that works out for the restaurants versus the apps. But on the flip side of that, for every order under $15, Postmates racks on a “small cart fee” of $2 to the customer, so…they’re making money somewhere or wheres – I don’t feel bad for them.

Like Filipina Fox, I feel a little bad for some of the businesses. But mostly, I feel mad that the customer is getting abused the way they are. The end result being that I will make decisions kind of like what she has been opting to do, which is just put on my big boy pants and walk down to the restaurant and pick up my own damn food.

No, really…I have to put on pants. Quarantine dress code and all means I’m probably sitting around in sweats versus dressed to go out. And sweats are not ok for going to pick up to-go food…it’s not like I’m getting on a plane, for Pete’s sake.

But, that’s a whole other rant.

Pro-Tip

Queers & Years

So, this happened…yesterday? No, 1979…wait, it was on the Internet, so definitely yesterday!

Phew.

Lance and Tom have been married for three years.

That’s 21 dog years.

And in straight years those bitches already be death done parted.

But, happy maniversary.

Apparently they figured out what works for them. Videos of Tomkisding a younger guy notwithstanding. Nor shall any other betrayals of troths I’m not in the loop on stand.

Although, were I Lance? I’d not be surprised that said video showed Tom kissing a controversially young man.

He learned it from you, Lance!

Meh. Whuddyagunnado? Such is the nature of the Gay/December relationship. He’s probably just sussing – allegedly – out talent for when Lance predeceases him by two decades…😬

Queers & Years

Social Pushback

I’ve been getting a lot and – I must admit – doing plenty of my own.

My new stance – coming optimistically slow – is to call people being stupid out by calling them – get this – “stupid”.

Person, does that make them mad. My stance to that reaction is undelayed.

Don’t get mad, get smart.

Simple, no?

Unsurprisingly, they’d prefer to not.

Sadly, their preference to not be called stupid while putting no consideration forward to behaving thoughtfully or putting forth a little effort, resulting in an informed opinion is not something I’m willing to consider dear or acceptable because “it’s the best they are capable of” any more.

It’s dangerous.

Thursday’s innocent incompetent suggestion that injecting disinfectant into ones body could be effective in treating Coronavirus is a perfect example. I had to resist explaining how lists and conjunctions worked to someone on the Facebook the other day after he floated the idea that what I heard wasn’t what had been said.

My first reaction wasn’t frustration, surprisingly. It was sadness at how pathetic it must be to share a mind with Trump – as this person must, knowing what he meant by his words in contrast to the rest of us, who only knew what he said.

Side note: that injecting disinfectants into the body isn’t such a crazy notion as it may sound – just a good 75-150 years out of date.

Who knew? Certainly not I.

Seriously, click that link and read the story about the historical use of disinfectants as both a potential cure for maladies like plague to pregnancy to not-being-White-ness.

It actually presents an interesting counter argument to people whose defense of Trump as a president and 2020 candidate is based on inanities like “Biden is an accused sexual predator, too!”

I mean, like basic math wouldn’t teach us to cancel out common denominators.

That argument, I think I’ll call The Lysol Rebuttal.

Here’s the deal – and I could have used this yesterday, when I was sadly left to sarcastically call someone stupid:

Someone was admittedly refusing to vote for either mainstream candidate in November because both were sexual predators. They had floated the idea of writing in their own candidate, but not committed to anything past not voting for either Biden or Trump.

Now, I’m fine with anyone choosing to exercise their right to challenge our two-party democracy.

I’m not fine with them thinking that the right time to do so is six months prior to the General. Nor that the right place to effect change is on a Facebook comment thread.

I really can’t believe it took me this long to decide to just call that type of behavior stupid to its stupid face.

But that they were ok leaving Trump in office for the sole reason that they “thought” voting Biden in would amount only to trading one sexual predator for another.

Here’s where The Lysol Rebuttal comes in.

Just like Lysol – let’s actually call it “Lysol” since Lysol actually provided the douche as birth control product but wasn’t actually the brand of disinfectant used as an internal disinfectant in the 1800s – was used as birth control in the 1920s and 30s, we now know how to use it properly for effective results, making it safe to “use”.

Well, Biden is kind of the same way – whether you believe the allegations or they are actually proved to be true. We know how to “use” him safely.

Right now, as I know it, his accuser (Tara Reade – not Reid – but can you believe the friggin’ coincidence?) claims to have filed a report with the Senate police (I think that’s what I read, who knew that was a thing) in ’93 that cannot be located now. She also says she complained to her boss, Biden’s Admin, who cannot not only recall it, says it never happened.

So, we’re kind of in a he said/she said/then another she said “Oh, no she di-in’t said”.

Meanwhile, Reade just now filed a police report in D.C. about the alleged ’93 assault.

Now.

Not when Biden was put on the ’08 Obama ticket.

Now.

Now it’s a significant barrier to his viability as a public servant. Not when he was only a heartbeat away from the presidency – serving as Veep to the first Black man elected to that office.

Now.

In other meanwhiles, we’ve got the currently sitting sexual predator who was elected (by Electoral College malfunction default, not popular vote, mind you) months after a tape of him bragging about his sexual predator prowess was released in 2016.

That was a result of what I call The Yeahbuts.

“Hey, your guy brags about grabbing women by the pussy and that he could shoot someone on the street in the middle of NYC and get away with it because he’s famous.”

“Yeah, but he’s an outsider, he’ll shake things up. Once he’s elected, he’ll act like a President.”

Ok, how come my yeahbut doesn’t work against Trump now?

Yeahbut, none of that happened – his outsider-ness hasn’t made him more effective and he hasn’t behaved presidentially.

Why are we still talking about him as a candidate? He’s proving daily that he’s harmful today.

The argument against is yeahbut Biden was possibly maybe harmful 27 years ago?

The Lysol Rebuttal.

Personally, anyone who chooses what we know is bad today, can’t see that it’s bad for us or enables it because they think both are equally bad and won’t choose?

Stupid.

It’s like being caught in a house fire in L.A. and choosing to die of smoke inhalation because the air outside is smoggy.

I’m not even considering this chosen course of action of mine as something that will make me unpopular – as if I care about popularity. These people are not folks I want to be popular amongst. But I will attempt to at least choose my words carefully enough to separate stupid thoughts and stupid actions from plain old stupidity.

That’s stupid” is not the same as “you’re stupid”.

There is a difference, not that the subjects will notice, I’m confident of that.

Social Pushback

I Am

Therefore, I am bothered.

For the last five weeks, if not longer, I’ve been mainly stuck at home. Outside of FaceTime, Messenger and Zoom and the Virtual Happy Hours they provide, my main source of socialization is Mistress Myrtle.

So I’ve been listening to a lot of Pandora and Spotify.

Since I’m a broke ass ho’, I have the free versions – which means I hear ads.

Side note: I don’t feel bad about not being a paid subscriber – I’m assuming they make more marketing to me than they would off of my – what…$30 annual subscription?

Anyway, I’ve been hearing this ad since day one of lockdown

And I’m really all for it, just like the freeway reader boards that have no congestion or accidents to report, so now they read

Stay Home, Save Lives

Fine.

I’m good with all that. Because we need to hear it, obviously.

That last one…goddamn, that’s hilarious.

But what I’m not fine with is them not making sense.

This ad I’ve been hearing listening to all this time, makes a great point. Up to a point

Here’s the deal, the ad states that:

  1. If we don’t stay home, as many as 1.4% of Oregonians could die
  2. The average Oregonian knows six hundred people
  3. That means five people I know could die from Miley Cyrus Coronavirus
  • Ok, well…first, I think 1.4% is on the low side, outside of math.
  • Second, I’ve got a list of at least five people that could please up and do my world a favor.
  • Third – and I think this is most important:
  • Five is not 1.4% of 600, so…what gives?
  • It’s 8.4, which I’d actually be really sad about even if it was rounded down to 8.
  • Every time that damn ad comes on I just want to call someone and demand an explanation. But, since I need to run to the Rx and it’s pouring outside, I’m dumping this complaint here and hope that helps it stop making me crazy.
  • I mean, seriously…if I wanted half-assed information, there’s FaceBook and Fox News.
  • But since I’m now at the point where I’ve muted someone on FaceBook for 30 days to see if that makes me less nuts than trying to talk sense to stupid Americans like her – maybe that’s another blog, we’ll see – or if I just have to unfriend her remains to be seen.
  • Maybe it just means I have to subscribe to a Pandora or Spotify…
  • I Am

    BTW: Milestones!

    This is my 502nd post. I got this last week

    And this the week before…

    So it’s been a big month for me on WordPress.

    But in realizing I forgot to post about said milestones, I was also surprised at how people find my blog. Even when – no, especially when I’m idle for a while. In checking my stats after posting about the odd things I collect, I noticed a bunch of clicks on old posts.

    Like really old.

    Turns out, some of them were the result of the following search prompts:

    I don’t know if that’s all three clicks from whomever in Japan or maybe it is a combination of the two clicks from the U.S. and the U.K. Who knows, really? I do know it wasn’t the Aussie clicks, I know who that shy guy is. He doesn’t come around enough, but when he does, I’m glad to see him. 😉

    Anyway, I am tempted to recreate that search – on Google and Yahoo, since I was reached through searches on both. I want to see just how many pages I have to scroll through before my blog pops up.

    I’m assuming the full search term was:

    Welcome to Oregon, don’t stay

    At the end of the day, it’s been a great ride.

    Out of those 502 posts, I collated several into a self-publishing practice book

    Which wouldn’t have been possible without this blog and the confidence you readers have helped me develop while finding my voice. I’m a sloppy writer, preferring the title Storyteller over Author, but I’ve been fortunate enough to to create two books around the characters I’ve created and have a third in the works right now.

    I’ve learned quite a lot along the way – and saved hundreds of hours in therapy – thanks to this blog.

    And, mostly, thanks to the followers. I’m grateful for you.

    BTW: Milestones!