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Friday
March 19, 2010 Since 1922 |
I think, therefore I rant
By Luke Hales
Published September 20, 2009 Yarrrr.
T’was Talk Like a Pirate Day this last Saturday, and nary a soul did I encounter who heeded the call. As fer meself, I hauled out a flagon of the good grog and loaded the powder and shot fer the occasion. Would that me ears had heard but one fellow raider of the seas in his native tongue, methinks I would have fired a shot o’er the bow in celebration. But it t’were not to be. Seems all the scalawags had hid themselves fer the day.
Yarrrr.
Okay, now that that’s out of the way …
I got an email last week about my columns. Apparently I’ve gotten too soft in my subject matter, all full of hope and compassion and whatnot.
Fortunately, I woke up this morning in the mood to smash some idols.
Today we get back to what I’m good at.
And so it begins.
Poor planning
This little story was brought to my attention this morning. I quote from Cindy Adams of www.examiner.com:
“Phillip Paul, who was sent to a mental institution in 1987 after he murdered a woman, escaped Thursday during a field trip to a county fair near Spokane.”
Yup. This really happened.
It gets better.
“Paul was committed to Eastern State Hospital after admitting to slitting the throat of a community activist, Ruth Motley, over two decades ago. Paul believed Motley was a witch and killed her at the direction of the voices in his head.”
Okay. They did catch him — after three days. But … wait for it … wait for it …
“Reports indicate that Paul had a hand scythe — a long, curved blade attached to a handle — in his backpack.”
He had a weapon.
Imagine that.
I don’t even know if there’s anything I can add to this story.
Oh, wait. Of course there is.
Why is Eastern State Hospital taking field trips? I’m no expert on the day-to-day operation of an institute for the mentally ill, but … I mean … come on. Field trips?
And why in the world would they bring these people to a county fair? From what I do know about the mentally ill, being around that many people would probably bring about hallucinations and paranoia and all sorts of other delightful side effects.
And finally, whose idea was it to bring an insane killer to a place where there are more targets than in a wildlife preserve? This must have been like Christmas for that guy.
If the guy who runs that place reads this, then let me just add one more thing.
Dear Sir: Please don’t do that again. Ever. That’s just stupid.
Canine crime fighters
My kid is really, really into Scooby-Doo right now. The problem is, I’m not. Every time I hear the theme song to that show I seriously get nauseous. But because I’ve had to watch it lately, I have come to the following conclusions:
1. Those people never left the van. They were in “The Mystery Machine” under the influence of a massive amount of illegal substances, and they all had the same collective visions. This explains why the plotline was always the same (Scary dude is scary, there’s some asinine mystery, and they eventually catch them. And they always say, “I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for you meddling kids.”).
It also explains why, if you watch the background, it’s the exact same 50 feet over and over again.
2. Scooby-Doo didn’t exist. He was a figment of Shaggy’s imagination. And that Scrappy-Doo character that came along later? Same thing.
3. Don Knotts made a guest appearance on the show. I repeat: Barney Fife was on this show. There is no suitable reason for this to have occurred.
Fore!
Look. I’m not saying golf isn’t fun. It’s a great way to spend a Saturday, I bet, get out in nature and have a leisurely day with friends, et cetera. But let me say this: it’s not a sport. It’s a recreational activity.
Golf is a grown-up version of “Kick The Can.”
Its genius is in its simplicity: Take a stick. Hit a ball. Chase the ball. Hit the ball. Put it in a hole. Take another stick. Hit the ball. Rinse and repeat 18 times.
And as far as athleticism goes, let’s be honest. If you sweat, it’s because it’s hot outside. I guess you also sweat if you actually walk to the ball once it’s been hit by the stick, but they have vehicles you can ride to wherever the ball ended up. On top of that, there’s high school kids you can hire to carry your stuff for you.
By all means, go out and have fun on the green. But don’t come back and tell me how exhausted you are from your round of golf. If anything you should be relaxed almost to the state of Nirvana.
Can’t drive 55
You know who you are. All us happy motorists will be on our way somewhere at a reasonable speed, taking our kids to day care or heading to work or whatever.
And then there you are.
We can see you coming in our rear view mirrors, and before we can say, “Hey! Slow down, would ya?” you’re already ahead of us by about ten miles. The rest of us know you’re going like 100 miles an hour, and you’re dodging cars like the Russian Mafia is after you.
And you tailgate. That’s the worst. You’ll stay on our backsides, occasionally even honking because we’re not in the same race as you, then you fly by at the next available opportunity.
Where are you going in such a hurry? Look; this ain’t NASCAR, much as you want it to be. I assure you, that place you work is still going to be there. That restaurant is not going to close in 30 seconds. If your wife is delivering your first-born in the backseat, fine. Go for it. But if you’re going to Jack in the Box, seriously, no one needs a cheeseburger that badly.
All right. I feel better. Thanks for letting me vent.
And, for the record, if you’re chasing down an insane killer at 100 miles an hour in “The Mystery Machine,” bring more than a golf club. Bring a pirate.
Yarrr.
Luke Hales is the assistant managing editor for The Baytown Sun. He is also a pirate. Don’t judge.
Published September 20, 2009 Yarrrr.
T’was Talk Like a Pirate Day this last Saturday, and nary a soul did I encounter who heeded the call. As fer meself, I hauled out a flagon of the good grog and loaded the powder and shot fer the occasion. Would that me ears had heard but one fellow raider of the seas in his native tongue, methinks I would have fired a shot o’er the bow in celebration. But it t’were not to be. Seems all the scalawags had hid themselves fer the day.
Yarrrr.
Okay, now that that’s out of the way …
I got an email last week about my columns. Apparently I’ve gotten too soft in my subject matter, all full of hope and compassion and whatnot.
Fortunately, I woke up this morning in the mood to smash some idols.
Today we get back to what I’m good at.
And so it begins.
Poor planning
This little story was brought to my attention this morning. I quote from Cindy Adams of www.examiner.com:
“Phillip Paul, who was sent to a mental institution in 1987 after he murdered a woman, escaped Thursday during a field trip to a county fair near Spokane.”
Yup. This really happened.
It gets better.
“Paul was committed to Eastern State Hospital after admitting to slitting the throat of a community activist, Ruth Motley, over two decades ago. Paul believed Motley was a witch and killed her at the direction of the voices in his head.”
Okay. They did catch him — after three days. But … wait for it … wait for it …
“Reports indicate that Paul had a hand scythe — a long, curved blade attached to a handle — in his backpack.”
He had a weapon.
Imagine that.
I don’t even know if there’s anything I can add to this story.
Oh, wait. Of course there is.
Why is Eastern State Hospital taking field trips? I’m no expert on the day-to-day operation of an institute for the mentally ill, but … I mean … come on. Field trips?
And why in the world would they bring these people to a county fair? From what I do know about the mentally ill, being around that many people would probably bring about hallucinations and paranoia and all sorts of other delightful side effects.
And finally, whose idea was it to bring an insane killer to a place where there are more targets than in a wildlife preserve? This must have been like Christmas for that guy.
If the guy who runs that place reads this, then let me just add one more thing.
Dear Sir: Please don’t do that again. Ever. That’s just stupid.
Canine crime fighters
My kid is really, really into Scooby-Doo right now. The problem is, I’m not. Every time I hear the theme song to that show I seriously get nauseous. But because I’ve had to watch it lately, I have come to the following conclusions:
1. Those people never left the van. They were in “The Mystery Machine” under the influence of a massive amount of illegal substances, and they all had the same collective visions. This explains why the plotline was always the same (Scary dude is scary, there’s some asinine mystery, and they eventually catch them. And they always say, “I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for you meddling kids.”).
It also explains why, if you watch the background, it’s the exact same 50 feet over and over again.
2. Scooby-Doo didn’t exist. He was a figment of Shaggy’s imagination. And that Scrappy-Doo character that came along later? Same thing.
3. Don Knotts made a guest appearance on the show. I repeat: Barney Fife was on this show. There is no suitable reason for this to have occurred.
Fore!
Look. I’m not saying golf isn’t fun. It’s a great way to spend a Saturday, I bet, get out in nature and have a leisurely day with friends, et cetera. But let me say this: it’s not a sport. It’s a recreational activity.
Golf is a grown-up version of “Kick The Can.”
Its genius is in its simplicity: Take a stick. Hit a ball. Chase the ball. Hit the ball. Put it in a hole. Take another stick. Hit the ball. Rinse and repeat 18 times.
And as far as athleticism goes, let’s be honest. If you sweat, it’s because it’s hot outside. I guess you also sweat if you actually walk to the ball once it’s been hit by the stick, but they have vehicles you can ride to wherever the ball ended up. On top of that, there’s high school kids you can hire to carry your stuff for you.
By all means, go out and have fun on the green. But don’t come back and tell me how exhausted you are from your round of golf. If anything you should be relaxed almost to the state of Nirvana.
Can’t drive 55
You know who you are. All us happy motorists will be on our way somewhere at a reasonable speed, taking our kids to day care or heading to work or whatever.
And then there you are.
We can see you coming in our rear view mirrors, and before we can say, “Hey! Slow down, would ya?” you’re already ahead of us by about ten miles. The rest of us know you’re going like 100 miles an hour, and you’re dodging cars like the Russian Mafia is after you.
And you tailgate. That’s the worst. You’ll stay on our backsides, occasionally even honking because we’re not in the same race as you, then you fly by at the next available opportunity.
Where are you going in such a hurry? Look; this ain’t NASCAR, much as you want it to be. I assure you, that place you work is still going to be there. That restaurant is not going to close in 30 seconds. If your wife is delivering your first-born in the backseat, fine. Go for it. But if you’re going to Jack in the Box, seriously, no one needs a cheeseburger that badly.
All right. I feel better. Thanks for letting me vent.
And, for the record, if you’re chasing down an insane killer at 100 miles an hour in “The Mystery Machine,” bring more than a golf club. Bring a pirate.
Yarrr.
Luke Hales is the assistant managing editor for The Baytown Sun. He is also a pirate. Don’t judge.