Dear Reader, and, perhaps, Former Follower,
Since migrating this blog to Wordpress, The Last Half, has gotten ZERO (0) hits from Europe, Asia, or Africa. And even the U.S. folk who read my posts--some who followed me--gave up on me. I miss you guys! Please forgive me!
After illness for a couple of months (autoimmune foolishness) when this blog sat lonely and unposted, I relocated it to Wordpress on a friend's advice. She said "the search algorithms just LOVE Wordpress!" Have since learned that the truth is the exact opposite--well, duh, since Blogger is a product of google!
Please, please visit me at my new location: The Last Half. I'd come back to Blogger, but there is no painless porting tool (it was a bear going to Wordpress), plus I resent Google for its obvious preferential search engine treatment of its own product.
I didn't mean to abandon you. I can't promise to post regularly, but can promise to be..okay, don't know what to promise. Just once a month, that's all I ask: When it's the last half of the week or month, think of The Last Half : ) (maybe a teensy little bookmark now would help...? just a small one...?)
Hope to see you!
P.S. The dumbest part of all this is that I like the look of the site over here better, and couldn't mimic it on Wordpress (at least, not YET). But, on the plus side, I've added cute little baby blogs (sub-bloggits) over there, and will be adding more : )
P.P.S. How do I know Google prefers Blogger? Right after I migrated, both sites sat idle. Looking at the historical hits, the identical posts, with identical tags, on the equivalent sites, in Wordpress vs. Blogger--guess which ones got more hits? Could it be the one on GOOGLE'S product?
P.P.P.S. Oh, for heaven's sake, I'll probably give in at some point and migrate back. It's the Great Google. Resistance is futile...
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Most written long, long, long ago about co-workers.
Quizzed the meglomaniacal Rod:
“Would the rest of you think me quite odd,
If I said that I feel,
That it’s I who am real,
And the firmament’s figment is God?”
A woman named Judy Furnari,
Loves anyone with a Ferrari,
And, to their delight,
In the back seat, at night,
Is prone-ie to go-ie too far-ie.
There once was a young man named Larry,
Who swore that he never would marry,
‘Til along came the one,
Who proved there was fun,
In devising new thrusts for each parry
There once was a woman named Kendra,
Who wished that her girlfriend would sendra,
Card, or a letter,
Or something much better:
A friend of the opposite gendra.
A woman named Barbara Taylor,
Had a fling with a globe-trotting sailor,
But he nine months at sea,
And poor Barbara T.,
Found her gob-stopper proven a failor.
When only fourteen, young Ms. Rybak,
One Saturday morning did lie back,
And gave, for a sum,
To the men, who had come,
What she never could possibly buy back.
The company prez, Mr. Gross,
Is the type of boss workers fear most;
“He is nice,” people say,
But he works far away,
And no one has seen him up close.
When reading a dirty limerick,
About someone whose first name is Rick,
One assumes that the rhyme,
Is what first comes to mind,
But not everyone’s mind is that sick.
That evil man Harrible Humphreys,
Had a terrible case of the grumpreys,
And he then took it out,
On the others about,
So that they were all down in the dumphreys.
The clean-living Prudence McGregor,
Is the only McGregor not pregger,
And she lives in the fear,
As each month-end draws near,
That her dress size may get any begger.
Written on the request of a friend, for possible use in a film.
They wanted a limerick that used Malibu for the rhyme.
The film folk didn’t like this one. Shows what THEY know!
There once was a teacher from Malibu,
Whose morals were far from infallibu:
You had only to ask,
She assign you a task,
For a learning experience invalibu.
(Black man triggers accident merely by being black.
As he pulls his car in to park next to a white woman,
she panics and tries to drive away so fast to escape,
she drives into a wall. Sad but true.)
There is a young man named Mike Marks,
Whose approaches to women draw sparks,
They’ve been known to show fear,
When he drives his car near,
And to faint dead away when he parks.
A sex-crazed young man named Mike Wiegel,
Has senses as sharp as an eagle,
When he sees co-eds near,
He drives up with a leer,
And makes passes as close as are legal.
On the face of the man John Magee,
A frown you will not ever see,
They say Irish are dumb,
And I know how come:
Their smiles far too big but brains wee.
There once was a woman named Beth,
Who decided to cause her own death.
Although some thought it dumb,
And her friends asked “How come?”
She breathed ‘til she’d breathed her last breath.
If I see Sarah McLaughlin’s sad puppy-dog eyes begging me to spend only $19 a month for one more abused puppy, I think I’m going to scream. And dogloos drive me absolutely mad. (A dogloo is an expensive igloo-shaped doghouse made from insulated plastic.)
TO SEE A WOMAN WHO MAKES A REAL DIFFERENCE IN MUDSLIDE AREAS:
I heard a true story once: A doctor was dining at an outdoor café in a third-world country. A preteen child walked up to her table and, staring vacantly, reached out to her full plate and that of her lunch partner and helped himself to their food with his hands. When they pushed his hands away, he simply reached back, unthinkingly. Her companion explained why:
After a few years of the standard slum diet, children did not speak or play or do anything except urinate and defecate and sleep and move around seeking food. They had no other brain functions left.
A whole population of children lived unparented, eating whatever they could find on the city’s huge garbage heap. The garbage included highly toxic substances. Later on her trip, the doctor was present at an autopsy of one of these children: “The brain was actually missing a large portion—it was almost melted away” was how she put it.
So, I have been thinking about dogloos, and slums, and people living in cardboard cartons, and slum housing, and tin roofs, and problems with water, and insect- and rain-proof grain storage, and overpopulation and birth control, and a whole lot of stuff. I am even thinking of mudslides, and ease of rebuilding afterward.
What if an architect or engineer smarter than I designed a “peoploo”? A peoploo system? I am thinking of a square dogloo with gently rounded corners, one-story, but with a top deck and molded lip tall enough to corral a toddler. Perhaps the top could be used for shallow planting of grass if the climate supports this, which could provide cooling/heating (does the plastic hold up to that weight and the roots? I don’t know). Perhaps the top could be used to store water. Perhaps in Africa, included bins could allow the top to be used as a granary: insect- and rodent-resistant.
Doors and windows would include interior snap-in screen frames so that anti-malarial screening cloth could be replaced easily when needed. It would be lovely if the front could have a clever awning. Everyone likes to have a shady place to sit, or somewhere cool to sit and watch the rain while preparing dinner.
The outside corners of my peoploo have four buttresses. These serve to mark the yard. You see, when you receive a peoploo, not only do you get a home; you also get your own property. This ensures that light and air reach into the slum, and foot traffic can flow freely. It also ensures that law enforcement has access, and a view from above. Again, here, smarter designers than I would need to figure out how to do this so that these property markers don’t impede foot traffic or form a hazard. The buttresses wouldn’t have to reach the ground, but only lock with the adjacent peoploo buttress, to force a distance—makes a nice place to hang laundry from, too. I see them slipping together like puzzle pieces, but who knows what our presumed engineer(s) will come up with?
So, how does one get a peoploo? Simple. You ask for one. You are given one. All you have to do is agree to permanent birth control for every male member of your household over the age of (let the nation decide, but at least 18, and perhaps as young as 16) who will live in it, and no more than four members (or whatever the clever designers work out) to a peoploo. Bigger family? Get more peoploos. What constitutes a family? Whoever you say is in your family. Perhaps when you get your peoploo, your family photo can be sandwiched in plexi and mounted next to the front door.
Oh, how awful! you say. Sterilization, you say. Nazi, you say. Well, I say back: It’s entirely voluntary. You can instead choose to continue to live in a cardboard box, or under a piece of tin, or wherever it is you are more comfortable. No one is forcing you. If a nation prefers, let one earn a peoploo with the one-child rule that China has. Or phase in the number of kids—what do I know? If the average number is six, make the earning number three, then lower it to two, and work down to one.
Why sterilize the males? Because they make babies with way more women than the ones they live with. Because they are the toughest audience to sway toward birth control. And, most importantly, because long-term birth control choices for women are more expensive and risky, while for men, a ten-minute procedure does the trick.
Oh, hang on a minute—how do single moms and widows earn a peoploo? Well, I guess that is an issue…hmmm…Norplant, I guess, despite the nasty harm from long-term use of those hormones (much higher chance of chronic depression).
Will families sneak extra folk into their peoploos—folk who haven’t yet had their faucets shut off, so to speak? Perhaps. Let’s get people out of cardboard and worry about it then. Maybe we’ll need paid family planning spies, like in China (Nazi!!!).
Now, clever designers, don’t go overboard. Surely, if we follow the K.I.S.S. rule, we can crank these things out in six months. And third world countries, surely you can do the math, and see that your slums could be wiped out entirely in two or three generations. Perhaps, with clean homes, and pride of ownership, and fewer damaged and unwanted children, the slums will turn around—who knows?
Then we can work on saving the dogs.
TO SEE A WOMAN WHO MAKES A REAL DIFFERENCE IN MUDSLIDE AREAS:
Friday, April 22, 2011
Apologies for the redirect, but this post can now be found at this exact spot in the new location of The Last Half, here. You'll see that all these posts are there, plus new posts, and baby blogs with their own little posts. It would be lovely to see you there!