Blog #36
The St. Louis Cardinals have
offered a pitcher $17.4 million for one year.
The average salary for a police officer in St. Louis is about
$50,000. We can either have
one pitcher or 348 police officers.
What is wrong with us? Where have
we lost our way? Sure, the Cardinals
bring in lots of tourists who spend money at hotels and restaurants. And who protects these tourists from being
shot, robbed, raped or car-jacked in the parking lot? Police officers! And why are all the police officers outside
protecting us? Because they can’t afford
to be inside where it costs $150 for the officer, spouse and two kids
to go to the game. That $150 is 0.3% of
the officer’s salary. That same
percentage of the pitcher’s salary would be $52,200 -- more than the
police officer makes in a whole year.
But look at all the tax dollars that these tourists bring in. Great, and what does the city do with all the
tax dollars? They sure don’t pay their
police officers. They just investigate
their police officers and reprimand their police officers and prosecute their
police officers. But we have a
pitcher.
We have become a society
where singers, actors and athletes make exorbitant millions, but where
teachers, police officers and firefighters make a pitifully low wage. P. Diddy made $130 million last year. I don’t even know what a P. Diddy is! Shame on us!
And while I’m here fighting
for our police officers, President Trump is over in Asia talking up trade and
threatening North Korea. He is making
sure Kim Jong Nutso knows that the USA has the capabilities and the will to
wipe his nasty face off the planet. But
the President wasn’t sharing any details.
Why should he? The enemy doesn’t
need to know what we’re up to. You never
advertise what your war plans are. What
does he expect us to do, send him an invitation?
Your camouflage outfit is fine
There’s shooting at one
Please Bring Your Own Gun
And Molotov Cocktails at nine.
Do you know you can have your
fortune told over the phone? That’s
right, I just heard a radio ad for “California Psychics” – a call-up fortune
telling service. Of course I tried it,
expecting a knowing voice to answer with, “Hello, Michael. How’s your back feeling today?” Now that would be impressive,
but all I got was a request for my credit-card number. Besides, who would be so foolish as to get his
fortune told over the phone? If I
want my fortune, I go to a Chinese restaurant. My favorite is the House of Wong where the
Egg Foo Young is spectacular but the fortunes are usually not so great. What can you expect from a place where most
of the employees are Wong?
I’ve had bad experiences with
call-up services before. Especially when
I called up the Suicide Hotline where they connected me to a woman in Mumbai
who tried to sell me a cremation urn.
Recently, my friend Gene died at the age of 89. He was cremated and the memorial service was
lovely. Cremation is all the rage now
and I’m leaning toward it myself. It
just seems simple and thrifty and – warm.
I actually chatted with the
young woman in Mumbai (that’s Bombay to all of you who still remember what kind
of animal Flicka was). I asked her what
was the strangest call she ever got on the Suicide Hotline. She said once she got a call from a desperate
bulimic woman who wanted to know where she could buy Sugar-free Arsenic.
You’ve been to Trivia
Nights. We were at one recently that was
put together by my son-in-law Robert for a charity. Our table consisted of Carol and me and seven
of our friends. Among us we had over 600
years of accumulated wisdom and experience.
We came in dead last.
You would think that the older you are, the more you would know. But apparently, people our age have not been
paying attention for the past forty years, so when the question involved anything
more recent than the theme from M*A*S*H or the plop-plop-fizz-fizz commercial, we
just sat there like a basket of onion rings.
My goodness, it’s almost
Thanksgiving! Every Holiday Season my
California friends Amy and Eleanor send us a holiday card. Last year’s was lovely, a nice card with
pictures of them and their daughter. The
card had some bullet-words blaring out at you between the cute photos. LOVE and JOY and PROTEST
with their daughter’s raised and clenched fist.
Yup, that’s what little girls learn in California these
days: Reading, Writing and Revolution.
And speaking of little girls,
my granddaughter’s name is Charley. At
her last birthday party, I noticed the place-settings: Charley, Sam, Madison,
Dylan, Jordan and Morgan. All
girls. Girls’ names have expanded to
include many traditionally male names, but it doesn’t seem to work the other
way. You don’t see many boys named
Shirley or Betsy or Alice.
I remember when Charley told
me some new neighbors had moved in. I
asked if they had any kids. Yes, she
said, Alice and David. They
must be Chinese, I said. She was
stunned! I was right! I’m sure you have noticed that young American
children are all Kaneesha and Fulton and Morgan and Meghan and Bryce and
Beckett and Odin and Ahmad? If you find an Alice or a David, I
guarantee you they’re Chinese.
I was with some grandchildren
today. They were watching a show called Baby
Daddy. I was horrified. Here were kids from 7-12 years old watching an
innocent-looking sit-com with young men and women and canned laughter. Sounds like Friends, doesn’t it? Nope!
In this episode, all the young women thought they were pregnant because
their boyfriends had discovered holes in their condoms. Can you imagine such a thing? I don’t know how old you are, but in my day no such thing would have
been permissible on TV. Can you just
imagine Wally Cleaver telling Ward that he got a girl pregnant? The TV would have exploded in our living room
and my parents would have washed my brain out with Lava Soap. That’s right, Kiddies, tune in tomorrow
when:
Father Knows Best has an affair with his
secretary;
Hoss Cartwright gets caught with a sheep;
Carol Brady raises money for the PTA by
selling nude photos of Marcia;
Howdy Doody has a woody and
We find out that “Kemosabe” really means
“Steaming Stud Muffin.”
And don't miss the Saturday Night Special
when Dr. Cliff Huxtable drugs and assaults 29 women.
And don’t tell your parents.
I guess you can tell I’m a
little angry this week. Angry about how
little we pay our police officers, angry about the decline of manners and
culture. Angry that Superman can no
longer help us because there’s no place for him to change clothes any more. But I’m not angry with you. Next week it will be Thanksgiving, so be sure
to tune in, Kiddies -- and don’t tell your parents. Stay well.
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