Happy November! On this November first, allow me to share with you some of my pet peeves. I'm generally a pleasant person, but some things get under my manly, bib overall wearing skin. Like election years, for example. It is always good to see the election cycle underway. I often wonder to myself, who is the perfect candidate? I would have no idea if it weren't for the folks making yard signs and the folks putting up said signs. Thank goodness, I can pick a house I like and go with what they think. I cannot be the only person in the world that sees no point whatsoever in political signs. Do my neighbors think or vote like me? I hope not. The world would be a rather dull place if we all thought alike. Should we remain friends despite different opinions? After November, perhaps. Right now, I am looking for a Ross Perot sign to stay at odds against everyone else.
A few other things get under my skin—the metric system. I will start reading an article about something going on in space with an asteroid blah, blah, kilometers wide and so many kilometers away. Then I realized if the end of the world is broadcast in that Godforsaken measurement system, I will enjoy the last moments of my life in ignorant bliss. Grams, meters, Celsius, it's all absolute hogwash. Let's face the fact that the only useless measurement in the Imperial System is the 1/3 cup. The sole purpose of that particular size is to have a free scoop when you buy a set of measuring cups. They cannot very well call it the official scoop; only suitable for scooping a bit here and there. I am one hundred percent certain that the metric maniacs have launched a series of propaganda campaigns against the measurement system. Who learns the metric system? Doctors and scientists. Why? So they can talk in a secret code and be unquestioned by regular folks with our standard measurement system. A true sign of intelligence is being able to communicate with anyone on any level. Pseudo-intellectuals have to impress with exquisite vocabulary and their system of measurement. Do you suppose your office or lab would be standing without a few two-by-fours and yards of concrete, Einstein? Knock off the milliliter garbage, and let's talk cups or pints. The name itself of the Imperial System seems like it was also part of the propaganda efforts. I am reasonably sure the original name was Super Awesome System.
T.B. testing. Is Tuberculosis a bad thing? Without a doubt. Why in the world is testing mandated for everything? Have an overdue parking ticket you have to pay in person? Get your T.B. test. Want to adopt a kitten? Update your T.B. test. For the love of everything sacred and holy, does anyone else think that there is a dim-witted brother-in-law of a congressman somewhere that got a heck of a deal on a warehouse full of these tests isn't cashing in? What keeps me up at night isn't T.B.; it is Gorilla Pox. That's right; the bigger, badder version of monkeypox. Let's start testing for that. Better yet, let us find or make some tests first.
Bicyclist. The humble county of Indiana has gotten grant after grant for bicycle trails to replace abandoned railroad tracks. Refrain from mentioning the original agreement of a 100-year lease for the tracks to be in place and returned to the land owner. We need a place to ride our bikes. Except what do the bicyclers of Indiana prefer? Cyclists are riding four abreast down the road, refusing to go single file to let vehicles that pay gas tax to maintain the road pass. Do you know when riding a bike was cool? Before I turned twelve. I enjoy seeing middle-aged men with similar stout builds like myself riding an obviously undersized bike down the road. Those portly fellas are always just about in the ditch and scared to death of traffic. The best part is the back story I make up about them. "Randy must have made his woman mad; she wrecked his truck, and now all he has is his kid's bike."
Fun-sized. There is no fun when there are seven M&Ms in a pack. Fun-sized is a marketing ploy. Instead of saying "terribly small portion" and "technically counts as a Halloween treat," they label it fun-sized. Once again, it is because of those metric people. Calories are some hybrid metric garbage brought on by doctors. What kind of self-respecting chubby kid will stop at one "fun-sized" treat? Instead, there will be eight times the wrappers in the garbage, more than likely killing some endangered sea turtles because we will stop eating M&Ms when we are full, not when we have had one serving.
I am often tempted to start a conspiracy theory channel on YouTube. My first topic will be the link between metric-loving doctors, the insurance industry, BMI, and the food production industries. It isn't a stretch. The insurance industry is desperate to increase revenue. They decide to print out this chart that basically puts everyone without a thyroid disorder into a higher bracket for life insurance payments. The doctors get a kickback for hanging up the posters and being snitches. Then, the food producers save the day with "fun-sized," all the while being able to charge for an insultingly small amount of product. Who is the one that suffers the most for this nonsense? That's right, the sea turtles. The sea turtles are obviously at war with the reptile overlords that put this elaborate plan into motion. Keep your tin foil hats on tight because I am sitting on a gold mine of crazy.
To kick off November with the most positive spin we can, this week's special is Toasted Marshmallow. The scent of a giant; who cares about the calorie count marshmallow toasted and stuck in a toaster? Oh no, toasted the American way on an open fire. A fire in your backyard with the smoke blowing directly at your neighbor's house with political signs with which you disagree. It is a fire that started with a cord of wood from the good old measurement system of awesome. We are talking about the same cord of wood from a chainsaw filled with a gallon jug of gas and four ounces of 2-cycle oil. Neither the bar nor the jar are a "fun-sized" portion, but rather our standard worthwhile 4.5 oz bar and eight oz. moisturizer. A bar that will get poor bicycling sweaty Randy smelling like he didn't spend half an hour riding his kid's bike to work. A jar that will help poor Randy's chaffing "bendy parts."
Until next month, don't lose friends over an election between people that don't know your name. Remember that just because the label says "fun-size" doesn't make it so, and always be pleasant, so you don't get stuck riding a bike to work.