Even though our Dempublican Party Convention was purposely held after the RNC but before the DNC, on Saturday afternoon, between 1:30 and 2:15 p.m., in the seating area of the Fred Meyer deli, it was still somehow overlooked by the media!
Although I’m pretty sure someone was live-streaming us on Facebook with their iPod.
As they walked by, grocery shopping with their infant.
Anyway, now that the conventions are over, some of you may still be undecided about who to vote for this November. Or, like a lot of Americans, you feel as though you’re not voting FOR someone as much as you are voting against Trump someone else?
Is THAT what our forefathers had in mind when they took the risk of gathering together in secret to get drunk at Christiana Campbell’s Tavern and write the Declaration of Independence?!?
I don’t think so!
And did our forefathers like bacon? Yes! (If they still had their teeth). So, if YOU like bacon, and THEY liked bacon, then the Dempublican Party is YOUR party because bacon is a huge part of our platform! In fact, we tried to make a speaking platform out of actual bacon but, well…
The thing I hate most about doctors — not counting proctologists — is that they’re always trying to tell you HOW TO LIVE!
For example: “Ned, unless you lower your blood pressure, you’re going to die.”
Though I’m well within my optimum weight range (190 lbs.) for my age (48) and height (6’1″), am active and have a relatively low-stress lifestyle (when our three teens aren’t home), my blood pressure is still high.
Apparently, it’s something that runs in my family. Which is ironic considering my family isn’t known for running.
Because I don’t really need to lose weight and my heart sounds fine, my doctor has started me on a very mild dose of blood pressure medicine. “Just take 10 milligrams each morning at breakfast,” he said.
[Breaking News: from another strangely irrelevant moment in our newsroom…]
Each newsroom has a distinctive aroma. Ours is a combination of perspiration, diet soda and the occasional waft of cigarette smoke carried in by our editor after she returns from “following up on a lead.” That changed today, thanks to a package that arrived addressed to me. To be honest, ever since receiving dozens of unsolicited fruitcakes (the loaf) in the mail and through my car windows after writing about FDAD (Fruitcake Disposal Anxiety Disorder) a few years ago, I am suspicious of any package that arrives for me that doesn’t come from Amazon.com. Continue reading … This Just In …
Being a journalist, I am often privy to world-shaking news of scientific or technological breakthroughs hours before members of the general public (who aren’t on Facebook).
The glow-in-the-dark toilet seat, shoes with their own umbrellas attached, eatable bread gloves… yeah, I heard it hear first.
However, this morning I received an email about a fusion of science and technology that could help millions of people rest a little easier each night; at least until they’re awakened by their own drool:
I have reached the conclusion that most of the world’s ironing is now being done by men. I say this because it’s the only explanation I have for a sport called “extreme” ironing, which is actually being lobbied as an Olympic event by “ironing enthusiasts” — a phrase referred to in the Bible as a sign of the coming apocalypse.
“And four horsemen will come from the sky. And they will lay waste to the land, but not before having their robes pressed by ironing enthusiasts.”
It’s easy to understand how extreme ironing evolved if you keep in mind this simple truth about the male species:
Given enough time, any man performing a mundane task will find a way to hurt himself.
And if you can hurt yourself doing it, then it’s practically a sport already. Sure, bowling and golf may appear to be exceptions to this rule. But ask anyone who has ever jammed their finger in the ball return, or inadvertently left a tee in their back pocket, and they’ll tell you there is plenty of danger involved. Continue reading Only REAL men can iron clothes at 3,000 feet