LIMERICK    OYSTER

Blog #392                                September 12, 2024

 

Carol and I watched a lot of the US Open tennis during the last two weeks.  It was very entertaining.  But there’s something that aggravates me.  The chair umpire -- you know, the person who sits on the chair and calls out the score as if there weren’t huge scoreboards everywhere.  Well, I’ve noticed for years now that those umpires always have a foreign accent, maybe French or something else.  That pisses me off.  It’s the US Open, and the US, for those of you who spent the first 18 years of your life under a man-hole cover, stands for United States, and we should not have to settle for some ersatz substitute chair umpire.  We have 330 million people here.  Some of them actually speak English, and it seems like we could find a few who could say “forty-thirty” without having it sound like some kind of custard dessert.  Have you ever heard a chair umpire at the French Open with a German accent?  Or, God forbid, an American accent?  The French would sooner whitewash the Mona Lisa than to have an American chair umpire at the French Open.  Stand up, People, it’s the US Open.  Have some US people as chair umpires.  Jeesh!

 

Apology #1:  Excuse me for using “man-hole cover”.  I guess it should have been “person-hole cover”.  Jeesh!

 

And besides, what’s with not allowing the Russian players to say they’re from Russia?  They know they’re from Russia.  We know they’re from Russia.  We’re not stupid.  But the Tennis World has decided to punish Russia for the war in Ukraine or for doping their athletes or for colluding with Trump again.  Whatever it is, the Russian players are not allowed any letters after their names.  A German player has GER after his or her name, an American has USA, a Spaniard has ESP, an Israeli has ISR (except at the French Open they put JEW). But a Russian player must suffer the sins of its motherland by not having anything.  No letters, no RUS, nothing.  They let the Russians play, but punish them like 4^th-graders – nya, nya, nya, nya you don’t get no letters.  It’s juvenile; it’s imbecilic; it’s ridiculous.  Like allowing French umpires at the US Open.

 

An American woman made the finals in the tournament, as did an American man, but they were both underdogs and both lost. 

 

Apology #2:  I called the female tennis player an underdog.  I wonder if a female underdog should be called something else.  Would it be an under-bitch?

 

A female boar is a sow

A female bull is a cow

From warlock to witch

Underdog -- under-bitch

And boy, I’m in big trouble now.

 

Under-bitch.  I think I just invented that word.  Well, who else would be that stupid?  But I did not invent our Weekly Word, ersatz, which means an artificial and inferior substitute or imitation

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  I am.  Yes, I am officially declaring myself done with pneumonia and am back to my – well, I almost said normal life, but any of you who think I’m normal has more screws loose than I do.  Once again, I thank you all for the good wishes and advice and love and support you’ve given me the last five weeks.  It helped a lot.

 

Have you noticed that every time you go to a doctor’s office, they take your temperature?  When I was little, the nurse would stick a glass tube up my you-know-what.  Later they graduated to putting the glass tube under my tongue.  Gee, I sure hope it wasn’t the same glass tube.  Now, they just wave some gizmo at me and tell me my temperature is 37.  I know that’s Centigrade, but I wonder why.  I’m not in France or Nepal or Abu Dhabi.  I’m in the USA, where the meteorologists tell us the forecast in Fahrenheit.  Where every recipe, every oven, every toaster contraption is calibrated in Fahrenheit.  Where water freezes at 32 and boils at 212.  So why is the nurse trying to confuse me?  If the medical community wants to conduct its affairs in the Wonderful World of Metric, great.  I don’t care.  But I would like to know what my temperature is.  Being a math nerd, I can do the conversion (9/5+32), but what if I couldn’t or if I made a mistake?  Then she told me my weight was 71.  Now that I didn’t mind.

 

Did you watch the Debate?  Of course you did.  The debates are useless.  We know who these people are; we know what they’ll do.  Do we watch so we can hear about their energy policy or the border?  No, we want to sit there and scream at the one we hate the most.  You liar!  You fool!  I hate you!  I hope you make mistakes and look like an ass and fall down and have a stroke!  The debates are an anachronistic and hateful display of schadenfreude and a waste of time.  Carol made popcorn.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns (Henry VI, Part 3).  They don’t even need this election.  Just make me the King.  I would make life so simple.  Sleep most of the day.  Stay up at night and watch the stars.  Eat salmon pâté out of a can.  How much trouble could we get into if we all did that?  Purr.

 

Speaking of the border, there is an old story about a kid who rode his bike across the US-Mexico border every Friday.  The guard searched him every time, but never found any contraband.  “Why do you always search me,” the kid asked.  “I know you’re smuggling something,” replied the guard, “but I just can’t find it.”  Years later, the guard, now retired, ran into the kid, now grown, in a bar.  “Look,” he said, “it doesn’t matter anymore, but I still think you were smuggling something.  What was it?”  “I was smuggling bicycles,” he replied.

 

Apology #3: Yes, Dear, I’m sure it was my fault.  I’ve used that one so many times, I say it in my sleep.  But I won’t apologize for this week’s blog.  It’s the real thing, not some ersatz counterfeit.  So stay well, count your blessings and be here next Thursday for sure – we need to talk.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com