Wind Tunnel

I have come to the conclusion that if one was to become a vegetarian, there are two ways to do it. One is by studying nutrition, vegetarian cookbooks, YouTube videos, and seeking the advice of veterans in that discipline.

The other is just to eat beans, all the time.

Toss in some other stuff whenever you want, but these little leguminous packages are stuffed with most of what we humans need to go on, with very few drawbacks.

One of them is that people stop inviting you over for tea, what with the necessity that you go outdoors every hour to release the abdominal pressures and not always making it to the door before such release occurs.

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Robin and I are not officially becoming vegetarian, but there is little doubt of our general direction. There are scads of health and economic reasons to keep moving that way. Add to that the cruelties present in the animal industry which provide another set of incentives to reduce our contribution to that ugliness.

But I have to admit that if it weren’t for the fact that I probably wouldn’t last a month, I could cheerfully exist on a diet of bacon and Cheetos. The mortician’s problem would be how to get the orange stains out of my fingers, and they might have to go with covering them up with a pair of dress gloves instead of trying to get their natural color back. Or a closed casket altogether.

Excuse me, but I have to step outdoors for a moment to break wind. It’s been sixty minutes … .

[I have discovered another use for dried beans. When I go to the indoor track for my walking exercise, I carry a small backpack stuffed with 20 pounds of beans. They come in just the right size packages with which to add or subtract weight, conform to the body, etc. And as a side benefit I am thus prepared for the next pandemic with enough food for weeks.]

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The weather is easing up. Our winters aren’t usually all that arduous, but still … damp and cold is damp and cold even when survival is not the issue. This week our high temps will all be around fifty degrees, and that will be enough to begin to wake up the earth. Grass will start to go green, buds will swell a bit, and the yellowjackets will climb out of whatever corner of hell they occupy during the winter to plague us once again.

Actually, the last time I was stung was two years ago when I was tearing up that deck under which the little beasties were nesting in great numbers. On that day they finally realized just who it was that was ruining their lives and got me four times in just a couple of minutes. Since then … nada.

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I wasn’t going to ever mention George Santos again, but here I go. He is too easy a target, but I am a weak, weak man and can’t resist. The House Ethics Committee is officially taking a look at this guy to see if he broke the law. Not because he is simply the poster boy for Fibber of the Year 2022.

I turns out that there are actually no standards in politics for how many lies one can tell in a given year. All such attempts to study it in the past bumped up against the unpleasant truth that whatever number was chosen as horrific and dastardly inevitably included some members of the committee who were doing the investigation.

There was a made-up number that came up for discussion briefly, and that was falsehoods per square foot. Members of the committee thought for a while that using this meaningless statistic would get the public off their collective backs for a few months, but that proved not to be the case. Most voters can sense a snow job very well (except for supporters of former president Cluck and the QAnon adherents, who stand in lines to be bamboozled repeatedly).

So unless he was awfully incautious in the past and crossed some felonious line, Mr. Santos will probably serve out his term comfortably among the other fabulists in his caucus.

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Why Don’t You Believe Me, by Joni James

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I watched most of Chris Rock’s latest Netflix special, Selective Outrage, and I didn’t love it. I don’t understand how this happens, but so many cutting edge comics become increasingly bitter as they age. When Rock was younger he was sharp, man, really sharp. But in this performance he wanders, dithers, and drops enough F-bombs for a half-dozen specials.

Then there was a long segment on abortion, which … I don’t know … does anybody, pro-choice or pro-life, see any comedic material in this issue? Rock’s routine here was callous, to put it mildly.

And then he took his revenge on Will and Jada Smith for that slap that happened a year ago. A long and a vicious segment. I have never seen a performer have a tantrum on stage like the one Rock has in this broadcast.

There were some funny moments in this special, but not nearly enough of them. Not when I know what the man can do.

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In general I am quite pleased with the politics in Colorado. The level of common sense in the men and women who have been elected to office is above average, laws are passed not just to please the group that screams the loudest, and there is occasional cooperation between red and blue segments.

But just to keep our feet firmly planted on Earth, God sent us Two-Gun Boebert, our representative to Congress. She showed up at the CPAC recently, and we’ll let Stephen Colbert set the stage …

One hardly knows whether to laugh or cry when Lauren opens her mouth to speak.

You Talk Too Much, by George Thorogood

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