Daylight Saving Time: Simple Plan to Help the Farmers or Plot to Decrease Population; A Ridiculous Conspiracy Theory That Holds a Bit of Water Despite The Lunacy of the Claim

I have heard, but not bothered to confirm, that Daylight Saving Time was instituted so that farmers would have more daylight hours to spend in their fields. That in itself seems ridiculous. Why should the government control something like that? And what, if farmers were actually the inspiration for the act, does it say about the government’s view of farmers? To me it says that Uncle Sam sees farmers as incapable of managing their time efficiently and in need of federal assistance.

This is ludicrous, but its implications pale in comparison to the ominous “secondary” effect of Daylight Saving Time I recently discovered.

My work is east of my home. I go to work at a reasonable hour; 8:00 a.m. This could be true of many people in our nation. I haven’t bothered to gather statistics, but I’d be willing to bet that a considerable percentage of people drive east at times approaching 8:00 a.m. Before the clocks were moved forward one hour, by government mandate mind you, my drive to work was fairly pleasant. At some moments, I could see a sliver of the sun rising over the horizon, and I found it beautiful. After the time change, however, this same route traversed an hour later is a direct route to the very center of a large celestial body so bright its light cancels out virtually everything in my field of vision. I found it disturbing, painful, irritating and deadly.

I drove 30 mph in a 50 mph zone for nearly a mile because driving directly toward the very sun overpowered other drivers’ brake lights. My eyes were squinted nearly shut because when I opened them everything around me was washed out by the sun’s impressively powerful glare. When the road finally curved a bit, I still couldn’t fully open my eyes because my lids and eyebrows were twitching from overuse, my eyes were watering and burned with intense afterimages.

The next day I wore sunglasses and found them only barely better than driving with my eyes denuded. At least I didn’t have to squint quite as hard.

I checked my facts to an extent. Some of my coworkers also experienced this blindness perpetrated upon us by our own government. Thankfully, we have recently had morning cloud cover and, so far, I haven’t been killed or killed anyone else due to governmental interference in my visual acuity as I drive to work.

In conclusion, it could only be a matter of time before the conspirators win and I rear end someone because they are rendered invisible by the act of driving directly into the sun. Even the aftereffects of a brief foray into the solar realm affect driving ability significantly. Even if that first mile doesn’t kill me, the following miles might as the afterimages continue to erase the traffic in front of me from my sight.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…wear sunglasses after you spring forward. It isn’t a perfect solution, but it helps.

A don’t…lose all faith in the government. Perhaps they were presented with false facts by groups concerned with global de-population. Perhaps the government takes the role of pawn rather than perpetrator in this instance.



A List Of Pet Peeves Whose Existence Will Likely End Up On The Pet Peeves Lists Of Others

Following are some of my most incredulous pet peeves. Though they sound silly, they irritate me greatly. Enjoy.

  • Cling wrap that doesn’t cling
  • Coffee that doesn’t cough
  • A banana that refuses to vociferously promote banning Ana
  • Hitting a knot in a piece of wood with screw
  • Wondering whether the plural of Bigfoot is Bigfoots or Bigfeet
  • Children that refuse to listen
  • The misuse of there, they’re, their or then, than
  • The phrase “I could care less.” to describe a situation about which one fails to care. If you could care less, it means you care and are not interested in lowering your level of caring. The proper phrase is “I couldn’t care less.” in these situations.
  • The process by which cheese is made; cheese itself is on my favorites list
  • The sticky feeling left in my mouth following the consumption of Skittles
  • Cat food that doesn’t taste like cats
  • The fable that walking under a ladder is bad luck. It isn’t bad luck. It’s simply unsafe.
  • Poor attempts to redesign the classic comedy sketch “Who’s On First” by Abbott and Costello
  • Wearing wet socks
  • The number 11

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…celebrate your pet peeves. Nurture your hatred of the ridiculous. It could keep you from hating other people by giving you a venue through which to vent.

A don’t…hate people.


Cow Patties for Dinner? It’s Not As Bad As It Sounds

I eat cow patties. I eat them as often as I can and I am not ashamed of it.

After reading the previous statement, I find it highly likely that you think me bereft of any sort of sense. In fact, the opposite is true. My mind is quite sound.

To explain my position simply I’ll say that the term “hamburger” in no way describes the food that we accept that it does. If you were to bring a pre-hamburger individual into present times and offer him a “hamburger” sight unseen and without any explanation as to the makeup of the offer, he or she would likely think one of two things.


 A: You were offering to introduce him or her to a resident of a burg called Ham


B: You were offering him or her some sort of ham based dish, perhaps one in which bits of a resident of a burg had been mixed into.

Paradoxically, both of these ideas are true and false. “Hamburger” does not mean a round chunk of ground chuck. “Hamburger” means the things I previously described. A more accurate name for a round chunk of ground chuck is cow patty. A shaped chunk of ground material is called a (whatever material was used) patty. Therefore a patty made of cow is a cow patty.

I eat cow patties.

I am not ashamed of it.

I will continue to do it.

I am not insane.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…feel free to join this etymologically correct movement if you wish.

A don’t…ask for a cow patty should you attend a barbeque thrown by a rancher or farm hand. You’ll certainly be disappointed, disgusted and laughed back into the city.


Sweet Tea and Immortality: A Sort of Scientific Excuse to Satisfy an Illogical Addiction

I’m given to understand that oxidation is the process by which rust is formed. I also take it that this same process is what kills off cells in our bodies. I could be mistaken about one or both of these beliefs, but let’s assume that my science is sound.

Given that we’ve now conspired to assume with one another, let’s follow this theory to its conclusion. Should you decide at any point to break fellowship with our newly formed quasi-majestic 12-esque arrangement, feel free to step away. I’ll neither seek to brainwash or eliminate you should you divulge any details of what you’ve read.

In addition to what I’m given to understand regarding oxidation, I’m also given to understand that teas are rich in antioxidants, or, compounds that prevent oxidation. If this is true, (we again assume it is) tea could be the formula for immortality.

Its a very simple premise for what I hope is a groundbreaking discovery. By drinking gallons of tea I can, in addition to satisfying my caffeine addiction and gaining mass due to my proclivity to sweeten tea to a semi-syrup state, prevent my cells from dying, thereby preventing the aging process from occurring. If I don’t age, I live forever.

Of course, this can never be proven. If it is true, and assuming I never die due to an accident, I’ll never live long enough to know whether or not I’ll never die of natural causes. I could proclaim I’ve discovered the fountain of youth in my own kitchen cupboard and have a sudden heart attack the next day, disproving my claim. I could live a thousand years before dying of old age, convinced the whole time that death would never catch me.

And of course, the complete opposite of my theory could be true. Perhaps the body needs oxidation in order to keep the cells fresh. In other words, old cells need to die off, be disposed of, then replaced by new ones. Perhaps if I load my body with tea and prevent the old cells from dying off, my body will quickly become a mass of old cells which have long outlived their usefulness and yet remain, clogging my system and preventing the production of newer more vigorous cells.

The only way to find out is to drink gallons of tea. Which I will do.

The real reason I will do this is that I’ve found a tea that comes with little ceramic figurines inside each box and for some unknown reason I’m as addicted to them as I am to caffeine.

But I can’t very well go around saying I drink tea simply because I want more little ceramic things to put on a shelf so my kids can divide them amongst themselves when my experiment inevitably fails.

In conclusion, I drink a lot of tea in the name of science.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…drink tea if you enjoy it. Perhaps it has a health benefit, perhaps not. If you should drink it, do it purely for enjoyment.

A don’t…ever take medical advice from me. Even if I had a medical degree, I wouldn’t take my advice. My strange sense of humor would likely cause many deaths and an outrageously expensive malpractice insurance policy.

Plastic Surgery and Severe Diarrhea: Two Topics That May Not Go Well Together

First, a spoiler alert. The next paragraph of this post could be construed as disgusting. If you are squeamish or would rather not read about bodily functions, skip the next paragraph. Please rest assured this is not a journal of my personal bathroom habits. I would never presume to be so crude. It is simply a rant and rave over a possible side effect mentioned in a pharmaceutical commercial. If you’d rather not read about severe diarrhea, skip to the third paragraph.

Severe diarrhea? Is diarrhea not already severe? I would personally classify normal diarrhea that way. How bad does it have to be to substantiate the qualifier “severe” as a medicinal side effect? We all know how bad normal diarrhea is, so I won’t go into any detail on that front, but great googly moogly, what is severe diarrhea? All kinds of pictures pop into my head. Pictures of firemen losing control of fire hoses. Pictures of fountains spewing strongly enough to support the weight of a flailing recumbent human. Pictures of people unwillingly visiting outer space under the power of  fecal propellant rather than rocket fuel. This horrid bio-disastrous event needs a much better name than severe diarrhea. I submit “fecal jet-pack syndrome”.

Now, on to the more decent purposes of this post. I am a plastic surgeon. I am very good at it, but the income is not very good. In fact, I have never been paid for my services, though I am skilled enough to re-attach a severed head.

Don’t get any crazy ideas. I am not a well trained benevolent saver of lives, although I have saved a few lives. Not with plastic surgery though. When I say I am a plastic surgeon, I mean that I operate on literal plastic. Dolls, dinosaurs, board games, kites, cap guns…those kinds of things.

The severed head re-attachment was my very favorite operation. When my daughter was about three, she came running into the living room one day in a panic. “It’s killt!”, she exclaimed. “Daddy, will you help me, it’s gots killt!” I dropped whatever I was doing and, now in my own panic, followed my daughter to her room. I assumed she had somehow stepped on a mouse or some other such horrendous event had occurred. When we entered her room, however, my panic subsided. My daughter ran to the corner of the room, picked up a doll in one hand, its head in the other and brought the pieces to me, nearly in tears, pleading “Its gots killt, Daddy. Will you help it?” I didn’t mean to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. My mirth had the benefit of sending my daughter into a fit of hysterics and headed off the impending emotional melt-down. I performed plastic surgery and the doll beheading became a game. “Daaadddyy…” my daughter would taunt in a sing-song voice as she approached me with yet another decapitated effigy, “its gots kiiiilllt.” After a while it became a little creepy and she thankfully outgrew it, but the first event rewarded me with a beautiful memory and a warm hug.

I guess I get paid for my plastic surgery after all.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…practice plastic surgery, even if you don’t have a license, Just be sure to practice it on plastic people rather than human subjects. If you have children, the rewards of plastic surgery are stupendous.

A don’t…be afraid to comment if you ever experience severe diarrhea. I’ve come down with a case of morbid curiosity and would like to know exactly what makes it so much worse than the regular kind.

Winter, Dogs and Writing: A Disjointed Rambling From a Man Who Felt the Urge to Write but Couldn’t Settle on a Topic

We all know the virtues of a good dog. Except for cat people, that is. They know the…whatever….that a good cat has.

I’m not quite sure exactly where this post is going. I think families and dogs go hand in hand. As I write this now, the snow is falling outside. The faucets are dripping. I’m sitting in bed as winter wears on outside my windows. My wife’s Schnauzer-Chihuahua mix is gnawing on his leg a scant few inches from my leg and my Mastiff is laying just outside the open bedroom door on a Disney princess carpet my daughters stained with so much mermaid slime they don’t want it anymore.

Mermaid slime is not a euphemism. Mermaid slime is pink glittery slime we got them for Christmas. In case anyone was confused.

Dogs and winter go together as much as dogs and families do, I think. There’s something comforting about a sleeping dog when winter rages mere inches away.

I think this post may be more about winter than anything else. It is a strange idea to me that a foot or two of sheet rock and insulation are all that separate us from frostbite. I like that idea. The wind howls and I can hear it. I can see the trees bend and sway. But I am warm. I can see the snow falling. I can watch it pile up in drifts in the corners of the yard. I can’t catch it on my tongue of touch it and loose feeling in my fingertips. I am in the midst of the storm, untouched by it. This feeling intrigues me. It reminds me of how I felt in a tent or fort when I was a kid. I was outdoors, yet separated from the outdoors. I like to picture in my mind a nearly blinding snowstorm in the midst of which we see a faint glow. As we sweep in closer and the glow grows brighter, warmer, we see that it is a single bulb in a single window of a small house. As we peek in the window we see perhaps a family playing a board game. Of course, in my fantasy, a large dog lays beside the couch, passively spending time with the family. Or perhaps we see someone at a typewriter. Sitting at it, tapping away on a novel, is a stereo-typical novelist. If it is a man, perhaps there is a glass of brandy on a coaster and a cigar fuming in an ashtray. If it is a woman, the brandy is wine and the cigar is, well, whatever the feminine version of that is. Chocolate, maybe. And in my fantasy, a dog is present. Perhaps he is sitting on his haunches, panting despite the blaring cold outside the window, thumping his tail lazily on the floor. Maybe she lays curled around her person’s feet, warming them, inspiring the writer to pen (or tap out, in these modern times) a story of charity, love and warmth.

I went skiing once and fell so many times that at the end, my eyelids were weighted down by little balls of ice on my lashes. I had to stumble into the lodge and let my lashes thaw so I could see. A fire roared and a large dog lay in front of it. The sight of the dog (once I could see again) comforted me more than the fire did.

To sum all this up, I’ll say this. The cold loneliness of winter can be offset by a good dog. The snoring of my English Mastiff lulls me to sleep when it is cold out. I cannot feel it, but I know it is there and her normally irritating attempts to breathe comfort me. When family is absent or bitter cold lays upon the land, inches away, trying its hardest to get to you despite your electric blankets, space heaters, or cherished significant other laying next to you, a dog is necessary.

A dog is family when no family can be found. A dog is warmth when the world seeks to place you into cryogenic storage.

A dog is necessary.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…consider befriending a dog. ‘Tis a wondrous thing.

A don’t…give up cats if they are your preference. Unconditional love is great wherever you find it.


Jerkology 101: An Introduction

I, being a reluctant people pleaser and fantasizing unsung hero, have thought a lot about jerks. My distaste with verbal confrontation has inspired me to think deeply about the nature of jerks. I have been writing a field guide to common jerks.

Among my many eccentricities is an obsession with field guides. I have a field guide to fish. A field guide to birds. I have field guides to edible plants, poisonous plants, varmints, pests and survival techniques. If  “field guide” is in the title, I’ll find the money to buy it.

As I live with this obsession, combined with my fear of being verbally harangued by negative entities, it is only logical that I should create a field guide of my own. This field guide is entitled thusly: “Field Guide to Common Jerks”. It used to be “Field Guide to Common North American Jerks” until I realized that the types of jerks are universal. Versions of each jerk can be naturally found on every continent and in every city, town, settlement and village the world ’round.

I have written the field guide almost in its entirety. I had planned to publish it, but I decided that the stories of Sir Donkey Legs would be more marketable due to the originality of the characters (most of the credit is due to my children on that front). I still plan to publish the field guide, as soon I finish publishing my Sir Donkey Legs stories. So far there are two more ready to go, I’m  just waiting on funding.  The field guide will be given to the world. Until then, I offer it, for better or for worse, to my fellow bloggers.

I’ll begin by introducing you to Jerk philosophy. I have found that there are two basic types of Jerks. All of the Sub-Jerks fall under one of the following two categories: Active Jerk and Passive Jerk.

Active Jerks are those who actively try to physically hurt you. In this category you’ll find murderers, Satan himself and rapists. The Passive Jerk category includes such Jerks as those who insult you out of jealousy; cheaters and thieves.(Speaking of thieves, I used to work in a jail with a gentleman who would sing his own version of the classic hymn “Bringing In The Sheaves” which he called “Bringing In The Thieves” any time a new inmate arrived in our facility. If you’ve ever heard the original, you can imagine how humorous his version is in an incarceratory setting.)

This post is simply to introduce you to the idea of the philosophy of Jerkology. When you’re too afraid to confront others, you spend a lot of time thinking horribly of those who’ve insulted or mistreated you. The field guide is my way of passively dealing with that issue. I guess I myself am a form of passive jerk. Future posts will introduce you to the multiple different jerks contained within the guide. Be on the lookout for a book version, complete with illustrations, within the next few years.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…keep up to date on my Jerkology posts to determine whether or not you yourself are some sort of jerk.

A don’t…be a jerk if you can help it. At least not in public. Everyone deserves not to have been a jerk to. If that makes any sense at all.