As some of you know, my backyard here in Southern Jersey abuts a really nifty golf course. People often ask whether I “play golf.” I tell them that I “own clubs” and that I take them onto the course on occasion. This video ought to give you some sense of why I don’t say more than that.
Thanks to my buddy, Brian, the Air Force Vet, for the link.
Recognize this? I suspect you do. It is, of course, a plunger – sometimes known as a “plumber’s helper.”
When I was a kid, we had one just like it, but it was not often seen. In fact, it was kept in the basement, as it was so infrequently needed – and when needed it was almost always the result some foreign matter having found its way into the toilet. That was back in the days when we had toilet tanks that held enough water to actually flush away the typical volume of shit solid waste. Those were also the days when the federal government was not terribly interested in dictating the size of every farookin’ toilet tank in the United States.
Now, the federal government’s tentacles have reached into everyone’s bathroom to mandate the amount of water per flush. Ostensibly, the Toidy Police took this intrusive measure to save water and therefore the goddamned planet. I must admit that I have been unable to find the provision in the Constitution that makes my toilet bowl the business of the United States Government.
Their lack of constitutional authority notwithstanding, the regulations are not saving water and are downright shitty – pun intended. What the regulations have accomplished is the regular need to use Mr. Plunger to flush away the waste that defies the federally-mandated shot glass sized flush. As such, the once basement-hidden plunger now occupies a prominent spot next to Mr. Commode. The plunger’s new visibility has been a boon to the plunger industry (Plunger industry? Who knew?), in that everyone now needs a plunger that is dolled up or camouflaged so as not to look like a plunger.
Of course, it is possible that my need for multiple flushes and regular plunger plungage is unique, and the real problem is that I am simply full of shit.
Let me just say this: If I read or hear one more breathless news story about the “energy efficient” Times Square new Year’s Eve ball, I may puke.
An “energy efficient” ball? Gimme a farookin’ break. Jesus H. Christ! We’re talking about Times Square here, a place that is known for its dazzling display of lights and which, for that reason, has historically attracted tourists from all over the world – not just on New Year’s Eve, but all year ‘round.
The dropping of the ball at midnight on Times Square has been the highlight of New Year’s Eve for as long as I can remember, so this year we need an “energy efficient” ball? Why? We are told, “The upgrade [i.e. the “energy efficient” ball] means an 88 percent reduction in energy use and 573 tons less of carbon dioxide from the ball’s previous lighting source.”
Excuuuuuuuse me, but I rather liked the bygone balls, which were powered by the “previous lighting source” – yeah, the balls that sported a gazillion lights, real lights, hot, bright New Year’s Eve lights. I don’t buy into the political correctness or the Al Gorean junk science that positively correlates carbon dioxide emissions with dead polar bears.
If this nonsense continues, perhaps we’ll be ringing in 2013 by candlelight in Times Square while we eat salt-free snacks, prepared, of course, without trans-fats.