I had not heard of vehicle code 339472. I have now.
I’m not sure I’d find this as amusing if I was one of the people who was pulled over. However, it’s still fun – and definitely nice to see something positive.
Post by ‘Les Roediger.
Funny Video: Gag about Satellites and Space Aliens
To be honest, at first I didn’t know if I would like this, but it’s funny in a predictable kind of way. Certainly worth the three minutes it will take to watch it.
Post by Sadri Tabatabai.
The Miracle TV Diet
I attempt to source all facts I reference.
First, it’s the ethical thing to do. Secondly, most of these fascinating freaky factoids are found via the World Wide Web and much data floating in cyberspace is, well quite frankly, ka-ka. So, in attempting to validate a statistic I heard, I discovered a few fascinating facts about these bodies in which we live.
Since I’m turning 60 soon, I found it fascinating that according to HowStuffWorks.com, by that age, 60 percent of men and 40 percent of women snore; with the average snort volume hovering around 60 decibels, about the same loudness as standard speech. Not to be outdone, some punch out more than 80 decibels while slumbering, about as loud as a pneumatic drill breaking concrete. Related fact: According to the Hearing Loss Association of America, one-third of all Americans has hearing loss by age 65, which now makes complete sense since we’re sleeping next to pneumatic drills eight hours a night.
According to a report from Brazil, human hair grows a little less than 2/100 of an inch per day.
What Did You Say?
Out of town, delayed, exhausted, and weary from what the airlines had foisted upon me in the name of their twisted, loose definition of “customer service,” I sought energy in the airport coffee bar, hoping to remain awake long enough to arrive at my destination.
“What would you like?” asked the young woman behind the counter.
“Coffee please.”
“Sugar and cream?”
“No thanks. But where do you keep the Sweet ‘n’ Low?”
“On the counter behind you. Regular or decaf?”
I wanted to say, “Look at me. Don’t I look like someone who desperately needs caffeine?” Instead, I chose politeness, “Regular.”
“What size?”
“Small,” I answered, maintaining a delicate balance between staying alert long enough to arrive at my destination but not so amped that sleep avoids me.
Pointing to the plastic menu behind and above her, she explained, “We don’t have ‘smalls;’ only medium, large, or extra large.” For reference, she directed me to three sample Styrofoam cups emblazoned with felt marker: “M,” “L,” and “XL”.
Understand please, I am a writer and a speaker.
Words are my tools; their correct usage is vital. In the same fashion a carpenter handles a saw or an artist strokes with brush, each word has a specific function. Labeling a “small” a “medium” does not make it so anymore than naming a “rabbit” a “chicken” will cause it to lay eggs. Now then, I became launched upon a mission to correct this contrived corruption of communication.
Turning Sixty
This September 28, I will turn 60 years old.
Can I be frank about that? (Of course I can, it’s my column.) Sixty is freaking me out. Don’t get worried; I’m talking simmer, not boil; but the heat is on and I feel it.
Part of the reason that my reaction has taken me by surprise is that I faced 40 pretty well. I felt respected. I had just shed 70 pounds and had recently met my now-wife. Things were flowing along quite swimmingly way back then, thank you very much. When 50 came knocking, it set me back on my heels for, oh, about five minutes, but I rebounded well and quickly moved on.
Sixty however? Whoa-doggie! That’s a notion I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around. (Thank God I don’t have to wrap my body around it ‘coz it just ain’t that flexible anymore.)
I mean, six decades on planet Earth just seems, so, well – how do I phrase this diplomatically? Okay, forget subtlety, I’ll just lay it out there: Sixty seems “old.”
I apologize and no disrespect is intended if 60 is in your rear view mirror, and you’re now scornfully shaking your head (most likely hearing those cracking sounds in your neck) muttering, “Really Scott, sixty? Get over it!”
You’re right; sixty happens.
However, in my defense, it’s the oldest I’ve ever been and I am attempting to come to grips with it in a mature fashion; but it doesn’t help that Miriam-Webster’s medical dictionary defines “middle aged” as “the period of life from about 40 to about 60 years of age.” Yikes! I mean, what about all that “60 is the new 40” stuff? Moreover, by the very nature of the fact that I consider 40 to be “young;” doesn’t that validate my whole I-feel-old argument in the first place?