Have a great New Year!

 

By Joseph Walther

 

Since beginning this column, I’ve taken off one week a year, which has typically been the week prior to Christmas. Even before I retired, the week leading up to Christmas was always hectic for me. I thought that after retiring things would slow down a bit. They have not. I’m busier now than I ever was.

 

            Count me among the lucky ones. I found my life’s passion early on. I’ve never looked at my livelihood as a “job.” Monday mornings have never been a chore for me; nor have Friday afternoons necessarily triggered the end of a workweek. During my thirty-five plus year career, I have not always been ecstatic over the way things sometimes turned out, but I loved every second of it.

 

            Retirement and this column have opened new vistas for me. I find myself sometimes regretting that I didn’t “retire” a little sooner than I did. This isn’t due to the discovery of any retrospective professional regrets, but because I’ve found a brand new mountain to climb. Since beginning the climb, the journey has become irresistible. And, the most fantastic part of it lies in the fact that I have an opportunity to advocate for people who have had no one to speak for them for a very long time.

 

            My family, friends, and colleagues have always described me as being “naturally quantitative.” Cute handle. It has an air of sophistication to it. Bullshit, but sophisticated. In fact, let me compromise and call it sophisticated bullshit. Of course, if they’ve meant this in the mathematical/logical sense, I plead guilty. I’ve always been comfortable around natural law, because natural law is something that’s always been easy for me to get my arms around.

 

            Of course, there is another interpretation for “naturally quantitative.” It can also be a more stylish way of calling me a hardheaded prick. I don’t have a problem with this handle, either, because I’m also guilty as charged. I think it’s OK to trust God. Everyone else, however, gets audited. Just because legends find ways of becoming facts, has never compelled me to buy into them as such. And, unlike the writers in the original quote, I’m not about to print the legend!

 

            I wrote a column three years ago about factoids. People love to quote factoids as facts. This is because factoids have the look and feel of facts. Even though factoids are not facts, people accept them as such because many of them contain hard numbers and statistical inferences—their most likely source being the quoter’s butt. My parents and teachers were experts at using them.

 

            There is nothing wrong with this, per se, unless their usage irreparably damages vulnerable people’s lives. Over the past three months, I’ve seen too many examples of how devastating it becomes when helpless people fall prey to power-hungry Neanderthals interested in nothing more than saving face and proving a point. The only way to stop it is to expose it. The only effective way to expose it is for people with financial, legal, and intellectual resources to document it and write about it. I vow to start doing it in 2007.

 

            Whether people consider me “naturally quantitative” or a hardheaded prick is irrelevant. Like it or not, stupid is, STILL, as stupid does. My attorney is a stickler for me keeping real names out of accusatory print unless I have direct evidence to back things up. On the other hand, I’m very good—outstanding some people have told me—at investigative research. I not only know how to find the evidence; I’ll use it, including names, places, dates, and victims. Oh, and I’ll do it humorously, of course, especially when it makes morons look like morons.

 

            I wish each of you a happy, safe, and prosperous New Year. I’ll be back next week. Same time. Same channel.

 

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.

Happy Holidays! Maybe not, though.

 

By Joseph Walther

 

Since beginning this column, I’ve not written one for the week prior to Christmas Day because I figured that people would be too busy to read it. In the United States, more people celebrate the Christmas season than don’t. While this makes perfect sense to me, I witnessed a few things this past week that I’d like to share with you.

 

            I travel a great deal. While some of it is interstate, most is intrastate. The week leading up to Christmas Eve is always hectic, no matter the location. This year, however, seems to have been especially so. Over the past six days, alone, I’ve been witness to no less than 5-fist fights, not to mention numerous verbal altercations, involving a number of stressed out, disgruntled shoppers. “Stupid” is a perfect adjective for such conduct.

 

            Oh yes, before I forget, how many of you knew that retail merchants across the country have been retaining professional counselors to help hassled employees cope with maturity-challenged customers this holiday season—tell the truth, now? I stay abreast of things as a rule, but I’ve not heard of this before now.

 

            Throughout my professional life, I’ve had occasions when I had to deal with members of society that were not, shall we say… um, nice. But, the thought of punching them out simply never occurred to me. Putting out a few contracts? MAYBE! Well, OK, in my position, I could never have taken a chance on getting caught doing it directly. I would have had to hire someone to do it…discretely, of course. I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that many of you don’t realize that for under 50-bucks and the thrill of it all, some people will break both of your legs.

 

            Well, they will! Mind you; I never knew these people directly, but my friend Jerome—not his real name—did. All I had to say was something like, “Damn, that dude bothers me.” To Jerome, this was a service request. I didn’t even have to fill out any of those pesky old legal forms.

 

            Anyway, I’m not going into the details involved with this past week’s incidents. All of them were too dim-witted for words. Until now, however, I’ve not seen this level of anger over nothing, particularly during a season that is supposed to represent the embodiment of hope, peace, and love. I called Jerome. He hasn’t, either.

 

            This column will hit the Internet prior to 11:59 PM, December 24^th. It will appear in twenty-four print media outlets across the country sometime between Tuesday, December 26^th and Friday, December 28^th, depending on which day the respective editors use it. Before its NEXT edition, on December 31^st, some thirty-four million families will not have had a holiday because they couldn’t afford one. In addition, several million children will have gone to bed hungry, as they do most nights. The number of homeless souls—mostly through no direct fault of their own—will have increased, also. And, the perpetual partnership of loneliness and hopelessness will have claimed the customary tally of seasonal suicides, as usual.

 

            As I write this, it is 10:17 PM Saturday, December 23^rd. I’ve just returned from a one hundred mile trip back from a Sussex County drug rehabilitation facility, hell for short. A person I care very much about is fighting for her very survival and sanity. She’s scared and lonely. She feels powerless. I do, too. Money can’t cure all problems. If it could, I’d cure her in a heartbeat. So, I do the things I can: hug her; be there for her; and do everything in my power to help her find the sunshine again. Please! Would those of you with a relationship with God, make contact now?

 

            I hadn’t paid much attention, but rumor has it that there is a war going on this holiday season. I’m not referring to the Iraq war, though. I’m talking about the war between small, fanatical pockets of Christians and non-Christians, as well as a few avowed Atheists with too much time on their hands. Some of the Christians are in a tizzy over an alleged attempt to destroy Christmas by replacing “Merry Christmas” with “Happy Holidays.” Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson are the generals leading the Christian army. I’m not sure who is leading the other side; some godless secular humanists, I suppose. I bring this up solely because, on a scale of relative importance, this kind of tripe doesn’t even register.

 

            We face monumental problems in this country, particularly on a social level. We could solve more than just a few of them in short order, if it were not for this kind of trivial pursuit. So, if you’ve joined either of these armies, please grow up and get a life. I don’t believe that Jesus ever sent a Christmas card, let alone indicated a specific greeting preference. I mean, like, if He’s actually the second in command, with a whole universe to run and all, I’d think He’d be much too busy. Really! And, I think the fact that both Falwell and Robertson aren’t waddling around with incredibly painful hemorrhoids the size of cows’ udders is proof.

 

            Finally, I thank all of you for reading me. This column is only one of my retirement projects. One of life’s greatest thrills is to be in a position to help people rekindle their life’s passion. Or, in some cases, find it. I’m lucky. People helped me find mine about 35-years ago and I’ve never looked back. I find myself now working with people who have not been so lucky. The only minor regret I have is that I didn’t retire a few years earlier. I’ve always loved my work, but, God, I’m having an incredible time! I’ll be back next week, same time and channel. Have as fantastic a holiday season as you can.

 

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.

Oh, man. I really have to go, BAD!

 

By Joseph Walther

 

Dear Miss Kraby, Um, please excuse Joey from school yesterday. He had terrible awful cramps and a real bad case of diarea direa dyhrrea the shits! He’s been eating at Taco Bell a lot.

 

            Enough already about E. coli and Taco Bell! Yes, it’s a dangerous bacterium. Even though the average healthy adult can survive it easily, children and older folks can’t. I’m not trying to make light of this. Once medical experts establish a credible case, we should do whatever it takes to stem the spread. Implicated establishments should voluntarily close for health inspections. If they don’t do so, state authorities should force them to do so, with the added caveat of potential criminal action if anyone dies in the interim.

 

            Taco Bells in New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, and Delaware were all implicated. Seventy-one cases were reported before the outbreak was declared under control by the Center for Disease Control. The Taco Bells all closed voluntarily and remained closed while both food and employees underwent extensive testing.

 

            Delaware is the second smallest state in the country. We could place it inside Bronx County, New York and have room left over. Yet, in New Castle County—one of three in the state, the others being Kent and Sussex—there are 14-Taco Bells. This number includes the restaurants that sell only Mexican fare, as well as the combined Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC)/Taco Bell units. While I have not been able to establish credible numbers for either Kent or Sussex counties, the 14-units in New Castle County cater to around 3.9 million customers a year. Only two, that’s TWO, cases of E coli were confirmed.

 

            Perspective seems to have been lost when it comes to news outlets: newspapers, TV, and radio, particularly the talk shows. It’s probably obvious, but incase you’ve missed it; I’m not big on radio talking heads, especially the local people. If the U. S. government taxed brains, all of these folks would receive large rebates and the majority of the callers would receive even larger ones.

 

            However, reason and logic do not sell newspapers or elevate TV and radio talk show ratings. Sensationalizing does, even when it’s uncalled for. A local radio talk show here in Delaware did it up big time. One of the hosts said that he would never eat at Taco Bell again. “If it HAS happened, it CAN happen,” he kept saying. He tries to be clever with these utterances. Of course, if this particular talk show host were a member of a group stranded on a tropical island, he’d be Gilligan, only much older and with a nasty disposition.

 

            I think a bit of perspective is in order regarding Taco Bell and our chances of contracting E coli by eating in one of their restaurants. While I’m at it, I’m going to include some perspective on inferential statistics in general.

 

            For the record, I do not eat Taco Bell food. I tried it once, a long time ago. I didn’t like it. I won’t go back. It isn’t because I’m skeptical, but because I’ve been to Mexico many times. I’ve tasted the real thing down there. It’s good stuff. People, who are able to make this kind of taste/quality comparison, tend to let out one of those big shivering EEEUWs whenever they think about the taste of Taco Bell food. In all, I don’t mind admitting that I’d rather snort Drano and eat nuclear waste than Taco Bell food.

 

            Food inspection in the United States, according to the local radio talkies, is dismal. They keep telling us that only two percent of the food coming into this country is inspected. What they don’t say—because they don’t know—is that if the inspection samples are random and truly representative of the food population, a two percent sample size is enough to give about a ± 2% margin of error on a 95% confidence interval. In other words, forecasts will fall within a 2% range of reality—up and down—and the forecasters will be correct about 95% of the time.

 

            This is good enough for me. Perhaps it’s not so for you. It’s OK, too, because we’re all entitled to an opinion. We could spend a lot more money and go to a 99.7% confidence interval for inspection forecasts. I think it would be a waste, though, because there isn’t much room for improvement on the margin of error. So, we’ll just spend larger amounts of money for the same margin of error. But, by God, we’ll be right about it a larger percentage of the time.

 

            Statistical Inference is the holy grail of hard science. I’ve spent my entire professional career involved with it, up to my eyeballs. Here’s an example, from first hand experience, of what I mean. It’s a true story. But, the thing to remember is that the same principle applies to all honest statistical measures.

 

            On January 31, 1971, NASA launched Apollo-14 with three astronauts onboard: Alan Shepard, Stu Roosa, and Ed Mitchell. There was nothing unique about the launch except that it followed on the heels of the Apollo 13 disaster. NASA, determined to avoid a repeat, achieved a statistical miracle. Apollo 14 launched with a safety reliability factor of 99.97%. Everyone at NASA, particularly at mission control, was justified in patting each other on the back. The astronauts were elated! Now, here’s how perspective and reality can kick us right in our righteous butts.

 

            Even with a 99.97% safety reliability factor, around 6,231 components could STILL fail. Which of these identical facts would YOU have preferred to hear, “We’re 99.97% sure that the ship will launch and return to earth without a hitch,” or, “We have great news, men, we’ve narrowed the things that could endanger the mission and your lives down to only 6,231 possibilities?” You see, it’s not what we say, but how we say it. Statistical truth, ya gotta love it.

 

            Here’s another statistical truth. Human beings screw things up. They’ve been doing it for a long time. Some people believe it all started with Adam and Eve. I don’t know about that, but I do know that whenever humans are involved in anything, crap happens. It’s never a question of “if” or “can”. It’s ALWAYS a question of “when.” Whether a mistake has already happened, as our local talk show host insisted, is irrelevant. Mr. Murphy—we all know who he is—has been fine tuning human screw-ups since the dawn of human civilization. He’ll continue doing so, too, only with more dangerous stuff. Think nukes!

 

            When I was a kid, I became “please let me die,” puking sick after eating Skippy

Chunky-style peanut butter. About six months later, the same thing happened after I ate some lemon meringue pie. It might have been E coli, but regardless, I have not eaten either since. Of course, in the case of the peanut butter, I always fail to mention that I ate the entire jar. Oh yes, I also ate the entire pie, not just one slice. In fact, my mother had warned me that if I ate one more slice of the pie, I was going to explode. So, I told her to give me another slice and get out of the way. Um, she didn’t like that; I almost didn’t live long enough to get sick from the pie!

 

            Back in my heyday, when I knew everything; before I became academically sophisticated; before I had kids of my own, I had a tendency to become fall-down, puking sick after drinking beer by the case. Did I blame this on “bad” beer? Did I look for a lawyer to sue the beer company? NO! Yes, I consumed massive quantities of it, but I was eating peanuts the whole time. Statistically, it had to be those damn peanuts. I’m just tickled to death that there was no lemon meringue pie on those bars. Otherwise, I might have died!

 

            So, if you enjoy Taco Bell food, have some. We’re all going to die eventually, anyway. Stay away from the chunky-style peanut butter, though. And, I wouldn’t advise taking any chances with the lemon meringue pie, either. Oh and here’s something interesting. Given similar exposure numbers, a person living in New Castle County, Delaware has a far greater chance of becoming an assault victim in the thriving metropolis of downtown Wilmington, than contracting E coli by eating at Taco Bell.

 

            Not that I think there’s a connection with Taco Bell, but I’ve established a statistical truth of my own. To get people to move out of your way, yell, “I’M GOING TO THROW UP,” instead of “Excuse me.” It’s over 99% more effective. For the statistical record, I base this assertion on a 5σ (pronounced as 5-sigma) confidence interval, which is 99.999994% with a ±.005% margin of error. I’m no cheapskate when it comes to establishing statistical truths!. Go ahead and try it if you don’t believe me. God, how I love statistics!

 

Have a great week. My study team did not make it to the prison in Smyrna, Delaware. The warden had to cancel for now. We will be going, though. It’ll be interesting!

 

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.

Crazy! You talkin' to ME?

 

By Joe Walther

 

I wrote last week that my study team would visit a state mental institution during the ensuing week. We did it. The institutional staff gave us free reign. I talked with anyone I desired, but the staff told me NOT to use real names in public reporting. The team covered a lot of ground, most of which consisted of procedural matters that would bore normal people to death. However, I was lucky enough to witness two incidents, one of which moved me to tears: first from sheer sadness, then from hysterical laughter. The second one blew me away. I think you’ll enjoy hearing about them.

 

            Before I begin, here is some sound advice. Never, and I mean NEVER, use the terms sane and insane in a hospital for the mentally ill. “Sane und insane are legal terms, sir! Vee don’t use dem around here,” she said. Her accent was heavy—in a Major Hochstetter sort of way—and her demeanor was profoundly serious. If stares could kill, you would have read my obituary the next day. I promised that I’d never do it again. Ever! She smiled; at least I think she did.

 

            The first incident involved a 92-year-old petite, frail woman making her way in manual wheelchair. She used her arms and hands to turn the wheels in her intended direction, but she also had to use one of her legs to pull the chair, too. Her progress was steady, but painfully slow. As she moved forward, she would occasionally tilt her head back, looking up. She’d smile, say something, and proceed on her journey.

 

            From a distance, I followed her about 20-feet down a hallway to a small common room, empty except for four card tables, each with five chairs. She positioned herself against one of the tables, smiled across the table and said, “I’m so glad to see you!” Again, she tilted her head back, looking up and said, “Sit here next to me, dear.” Alone in that room, she proceeded to have a 20-minute visit with her mother, father, daughter, and husband. I could tell what they were saying to one and other by the things she said aloud. An aide came up behind me and whispered, “They’re all dead. Her husband and daughter died 15-years ago in a car accident.” I could feel my eyes bubbling up with tears.

 

            The visit ended with her thanking them for coming and saying that she’d see them on Monday. She pulled away from the table and began wheeling herself out of the room, back up the hall. About 6-minutes later, she stopped me as we passed in opposite directions. She raised her hand, motioning to me while saying, “Doctor, I have a problem. Every time I sneeze, I have an orgasm. Do you have any ground pepper with you?”

 

            The same aide said, “She thinks you’re one of the doctors. She uses that joke on all of them, too. She feels comfortable with you. You should feel honored.” I would have except for the fact that I couldn’t at the time. Tears from laughter were pouring down my cheeks. My sides hurt and I was trying desperately to catch my breath.

 

            All of us, at some point, have used or will use the term “weirdo” to describe another’s behavior. I’m going to be careful about using the term from now on. I am more convinced than ever before that each of us is somebody else’s weirdo. I’ve always believed that lucidity is a matter of mental standard. People are either lucid or they’re not. I still believe this. But, I’ve come to believe that, at least within this standard, it’s all relative as hell.

 

            This poor soul was in full-throttled hallucination mode, but within the borders of that mode, she was perfectly lucid and happy. Somehow, she’s able to have meaningful and loving conversations with her deceased parents, husband, and child, AND derive a great deal of satisfaction from pulling spicy jokes on “perfectly” lucid strangers. In her world, she’s sane; I’m the weirdo.

 

            The second incident involved physics, STRING THEORY no less! I spotted a television room. I wasn’t sure that I should go into the room, but I’ve always lived by the principle that it’s easier for me to say I’m sorry than it is to say please. So, I barged right on in, smack into the middle of a three-way discussion, a bit animated but nevertheless civil.

 

            I know a thing or two about string theory. Even so, the Nobel Foundation is probably not going to award me a prize because—get this for an excuse—my conversational knowledge is not good enough. From the way that Harold, the most informed of the three, discussed the subject, I figured that he’d be a cinch for a Nobel. Of course, a fancy schmancy outfit like the Nobel Foundation won’t like the fact that he doesn’t have a physics degree. In fact, he never went to college. Um, I found out that he didn’t even finish high school. Maybe if we don’t tell the Nobel people…

 

            With Stephen Hawking-like expertise and Carl Sagan-like clarity, Harold explained to me, “One of the major problems in contemporary physics, at least as far as physicists understand it, is that the theories of quantum mechanics and general relativity can’t both be right. String theory, at least for now, seems to reconcile this problem.” If I were on the Nobel Committee, I’d damn well vote for him.

 

            Then, someone came into the room, turned the television off, and announced that it was time for some sort of group meeting. One of the three stood up, kicked his chair and stomped out of the room. The other two, most notably Harold, went into a temper tantrum that the average toddler, in the prime of the terrible twos, would have envied. Oh well, perhaps if we don’t tell the committee. There’s a Nobel Prize at stake here, for God’s sake.

 

            I know that I promised not to use the word “sanity,” but I clearly meant inside the institution. I’m back outside now and perfectly safe from Major Hochstetter’s able assistant’s fury. So, let me tell you that sanity seems to be like a gymnastic balance beam, horrifyingly narrow and extremely conducive to lethal missteps. At a minimum, the line between being weirdly brilliant and being a hopeless nutcase is microscopically thin sometimes. But, I won’t blab to the Nobel Foundation if you don’t. Damn it, Harold’s going to get that Nobel if it’s the last thing I do!

 

            I’ll be writing more concerning this, as well as Delaware’s prison system, in future columns. For now, though, I’m going to switch to an unrelated matter. I usually don’t do this, but I have to share this with you.

 

            I receive email by the ton. Most of it is thoughtful and enjoyable to read. I can’t possibly answer all of them, but I try to answer as many as I can. Two readers, 75-year-old twin sisters Margaret and Susan sent me this one last Thursday.

 

“Joseph, we know you are not a believer in religion, but what do you think of Gospel music? Our favorite female gospel vocalist is Sandi Patty. If her songs and voice do not move you to believe, nothing will. Her vocal range is tremendous and she as close to perfect pitch as you can come.”

 

            I love Gospel music. I’ve heard Sandi Patty perform on numerous occasions. I agree that she has a phenomenally beautiful voice. However, Gospel music has nothing to do with the dogmatic religious nonsense that I criticize. Sandi Patty’s voice makes me want to listen to her sing and purchase her CDs. It doesn’t move me in a religious direction.

 

            I’m not a music expert. Beyond knowing when I like a singer’s voice, a song’s words, or that I enjoy the sounds of many musical instruments, in solo or combination, I’m just another paying customer. I’m at a loss when it comes to discussions related to voice ranges, etc. I wouldn’t know perfect pitch, even if I’ve heard it. As far as I’m concerned, perfect pitch is the sound you hear when someone heaves a banjo into a dumpster and it lands on top of an accordion.

 

            As always, have a great week. Stay safe. It’s the Holiday Season. The traffic’s much heavier, the shoppers are like herds of cattle, and the drunks are out in force.  Holiday cheer aside, it can be dangerous out there. And speaking of danger, this coming week, I’m going to visit that big, nasty house, Delaware’s premier state prison in Smyrna, Delaware. Hopefully, the Christmas traffic at the shopping malls won’t become more congested than it is now, thus raising my RAGE QUOTIENT TO A DANGEROUS LEVEL OF IMPATIENCE! Otherwise, I may well end up there as an inmate. If so, Bubba needs to know that I’ll be taking the top bunk!

 

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.

Sometimes stuff just SCREAMS, "Write about this!"

By Joseph Walther

 

People who write this type of weekly column typically spend three to five days in research, plus another day and a half writing and rewriting to reach the final cut. I don’t do this. The best material comes from life, itself. I carry a small digital recorder and camera at all times. There’s never a shortage of material because there’s never a shortage of people, especially those who have a propensity to do, and say, silly things.

 

            Don’t misunderstand me; good topical research is important. The News Journal item below is the result of some ongoing research. Most of the time, however, I base my column on things that I’ve witnessed over the FIVE days prior to publication. There is something invigorating about not knowing what I’m going to write about until I sit down on publication day to write it.

 

            I began this column as a fun way to retire. I’ve written for years, but always in answer to some technical need. Now, I write what I want about anything that I want. My readership has grown quite a bit since I began in early 2005. In addition to my Internet readers, twenty-four publications print this column. Some of those editors have begun asking me to provide 4-week’s worth of columns at a kick. I won’t do it, because it seems too much like work. You know…deadlines and all.

 

            If I had wanted to keep working, I would not have retired. Writing like this is fun; it’s why I do it. The original deal was for me to publish to the Internet and permit print media publishers to download what they wanted, as long as they paid for it and agreed to my policy of no contextual edits. It has worked quite well in both directions. I’m going to keep it that way.

 

            I’m going to begin with the News Journal, Delaware’s premier statewide daily newspaper, also available online at www.delawareonline.com. I’m not sure how long ago, but the publication began permitting readers to comment on its news stories. For nearly four and a half months, I’ve been randomly choosing three articles each day, along with an equally random selection of related comments posted by readers. The point is to establish a legitimate ratio of meaningful comment to garbage. The project is ongoing, so I’m not prepared to get into specifics or claim any degree of inferentially statistical legitimacy right now.

 

            However, a news item published several weeks ago concerned the quality of Delaware’s General Assembly. Twenty-eight comments followed the story, twenty-six of which were pure, subjective rubbish, verging on the edge of illiteracy. Most of those twenty-six comments characterized the office holders as crooked and criticized the DUMB voters of this state for sending the same ones back to Dover repeatedly. I share my favorite one—not the most illiterate one—below, in all of its numbing splendor. The poster’s screen name was “ZippIt.”

 

“Your way off base. I am a highly educated woman. I no just about everything there is about Delaware politics. I read the NJ at least 3 times a week and the Delaware State News 5 days. I no most of the people who work at leg hall. Their good people down here and they do good stuff for all of us. You need to stop critising all of us voters for what the dumb asses who dont vote do. Your probably one of them. Your stupid and your post proves it.”

 

            This poster violated a cardinal rule of self-professed omniscience, the one about the need for such folks to cover their ineptitude, ALWAYS! Otherwise, they look wretchedly silly pretending to know everything when they’ve already shown that they don’t.

 

            On a lighter note, last Tuesday evening, I was walking past a food concession at a local mall. Around eleven people—40ish to 50ish age group—were having a great time talking about, from what I could gather, s-e-x. I’m spelling it because some people give me a lot of hell whenever I talk about it!

 

            Walking by, I heard a woman’s deep, somewhat husky voice ask the group, “How many of you smoke after sex?” It was easy to see that it was all in fun, but she asked the question loud enough for everyone within a half a mile of the mall to hear it. Her question—not aimed at me, mind you—made me turn and look at her. It shocked me a little and it must have shown. In a devious sort of way, she looked me straight in the eyes, smiled and said, “Well, DO you? It’s a legitimate question, ya know.”

 

            Everyone was watching me. I could feel their eyes. Time came to a halt! “This ought to be interesting,” I’m sure they thought. Thinking as fast as I could, I dug into my emergency bag of snappy comebacks and blurted out, “Um, I’m not sure. I’ve never had the nerve and energy to look.”

 

            Someone yelled, “NICE ONE!” The place cracked up, including the woman who asked the original question. I bowed, thanked the crowd for being such a great audience, and walked off into Boscov’s Department Store.

 

            Moving along, this past Thursday I had to attend a planning meeting. I’m retired but I still do pro-bono work. I’m one of a 4-member study group involved in a project for the Delaware Department of Corrections. One of my tasks, since I’m the designated computer guru, is to find an effective way to get the raw stuff into and the meaningful stuff out of a computer. I enjoy the work because I am quantitative by nature.

 

            On the down side, I’ve hated meetings all of my professional life, especially the endless, numbing, progress-stopping, administrative show and tell kind. And, I’ve discovered that nothing has changed. There are still two sure-fire ways to slow time down, either approach the speed of light or attend endless, meaningless administrative meetings.

 

            Am I lucky or what? Later that day I got to meet one of those genuine, baccy-chewing evangelicals, bent on protecting the sanctity of marriage from “the homosexuals,” no matter the cost. Yes siree, a true “love the homo but hate the act,” Bible-thumping bigot if I’ve ever heard one. His advice to the Catholic Church on how to stop the pedophile priest problem: “Get the queers out of the priesthood and the problem will go away.” He said this to a group of seven diocese delegates as they waited to speak with diocesan officials.

 

            They ignored him out of compassion, the kind that comes from realizing how sad it is for some people to go through life displaying the emotional depth and personal maturity of seaweed. I didn’t ignore him, though. Aging has shortened that time interval between realizing someone is a moron and saying so. I called him a jerk. Screw him! Well, not me, but someone. I’d rather pass a large kidney stone than spend 5-minutes around such people.

 

            People with 3-digit IQs know that this has nothing to do with homosexual priests. However, since the Catholic Church has failed to protect its children so miserably, I think that a more efficient way to deal with the problem is to turn every suspected instance over to state prosecutors. Let them decide which ones to prosecute, including all church officials who attempt a cover-up. If convicted, send them prison for a dose of Bubba-style rehabilitation. Bubba, by the way, is that big, nasty looking prison mate dude, the one who changed the words, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” to “Bend over, Satan, I’m gettin’ behind THEE!”

 

            Finally, I ran into an old friend this past Saturday morning. He’s one of the most technically competent accountants I know. I met him five years ago and we became good friends, but we lost touch when he left the area—about a year and a half ago—to go into therapy in Eastport, Maine. I was delighted when he told me that he was finally going to get professional help. He used to be astoundingly introverted. I have no idea how he had survived professionally.

 

            He looked fine. It was great seeing and talking to him again. He’s been in therapy for about eighteen months now and it seems to be working, too. I noticed immediately that he’s become much more extroverted. He actually looked at MY shoes while he was speaking to me instead of his own. That’s some real progress! Right?

 

            Stay safe and have a great week. Even though I already have an idea for next week’s column, don’t count on it. I just received a call from the Department of Corrections. My three project team members and I are going to visit the Delaware State Hospital. People around these parts used to call it Farnhurst. Or, as the alleged sane ones still call it, “The Looney Bin.” So stay tuned; I’ll be back next week. Unless, of course, they decide to keep me there.

 

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.