So, we have airline pilots spotting UFOs or UAPs I think they are called now (Unidentified Aerial Phenomena) over New Mexico, Tiger Woods rolling a borrowed car, Andrew Cuomo is self-destructing, and the 
government is still talking out of both sides of its mouth and gas lighting the country.
If it’s so important for us to keep schools closed and restaurants closed, why is it so important to open our borders and letting tens of thousands of illegal aliens into our country right now? How
can both of these things be true at the same time? How fucking stupid do they think we are? I have to stop saying that because the average 
American keeps taking that as a challenge. (Hold my beer and watch this!) 
I’m am amazed that the main-stream-media seems to be turning on Biden and the democratic party. Even the ones who have been traditionally pro-left in the past. That ought to tell them something. Look you guys, you are doing such a crappy job, even your fans are booing. Might want to take another look.
Oh, come on folks, it’s all in good fun! What’s a couple of lies amongst friends, right?
Oy! Karen! You gonna fill up these bird feeders, or what!
Taste the rainbow … Mother Nature says, “Fuck the rainbow!”
Due to unfortunate circumstances,
I AM AWAKE.
Water is the most ESSENTIAL element of life, because without water you can’t make COFFEE.
And a joke in the comments section from Dave …
The arithmetic Job interview
ITALIAN ARITHMETIC:
An Italian workman wants a job, but the foreman won’t hire him until he passes a little math test… “Here’s your first question”, the foreman said. “Without using numbers, represent the number 9”. “Without a numbers”?, the Italian says, “Datsa easy”, and he proceeds to draw three trees. “What’s this”? the boss asks.
“Ave you gota no brain?
Tree and tree and tree makes a nine”, says the Italian.
“Fair enough”, says the boss. Here’s your second question. “Use the same rules, but this time the number is 99”.
The Italian stares into space for a while, then picks up the picture that he has just drawn and makes a smudge on each tree . “Ere you go”.
The boss scratches his head and says, “How on earth do you get that to represent 99”?’
“Eacha of da trees is a dirty now. So, it’s dirty tree, and dirty tree, and dirty tree. Datsa a 99”.
The boss is getting worried that he’s going to actually have to hire this Italian, so he says, “All right, last question. Same rules again, but represent the number 100”.
The Italian stares into space some more, then he picks up the picture again and makes a little mark at the base of each tree and says, “Ere you go, One hundred”.
The boss looks at the attempt. “You must be nuts if you think that represents a hundred”!
The Italian leans forward and points to the marks at the base of each tree and says, “A little doga come along and shita by eacha tree. So now you gota dirty tree and a turd, dirty tree and a turd, and dirtytree and a turd, data makea one hundred. So, whenna I start”?
Thanks Dave!
Life is not a fairytale.
If you lose your shoe at midnight, you are drunk.
I’m so glad you found the love of your life …
… for the 3rd time in 2 years.
Quitting Time! The keg is open!
Okay, I’ve really got to stop watching the news…now California introduces a bill that requires stores to have gender neutral toy sections. In other words, you can’t have a boys toys section and a girls toys section and if you don’t comply you can be subject to a $1,000 fine. Can we please just cut California off from the rest of the country? Please?
Here we have two of our young waitresses gathering ingredients for tonight’s meal.
The fact that my entire body cracks like a glow stick whenever I move and yet refuses to actually glow is very disappointing.
Okay, I’m blaming this one, right up front on Stephanie…
Trevor loved tractors. And I mean, really loved tractors. Forget any obsessions or high-level interests you may have, chances are they pale in the face of Trevor’s love for tractors.
Every day Trevor would get up, in his tractor-themed bedroom in his tractor-themed house, with its tractor-themed wallpaper and tractor-themed carpets, and he would make his bed with its tractor-themed duvet and tractor-themed sheets. He would go downstairs in his tractor-themed pajamas into his tractor-themed kitchen, with its tractor-themed tiles and cupboards, and he would eat his breakfast while perusing the latest tractor-themed magazine or annual.
Trevors’s degree in Agricultural Engineering hung on his living room wall, along with a copy of his thesis, which centred around (you guessed it) tractors. The living room was decorated with all sorts of tractor-related trinkets, including die-cast models, paintings and drawings.
The hedges in Trevor’s front garden were trimmed in the shape of tractors. His lawn was vividly decorated with tractor-driving garden gnomes, and his garden furniture was constructed from various parts from vintage tractor designs.
Trevor just had one thing missing from his otherwise tractor-centric life; he had never actually owned, nor driven, a real tractor.
Not for his lack of trying, of course. Trevor had been to many tractor shows over the years, and visited many farms with friends of his, but none of the tractors he had seen had ever been quite right. Trevor was so knowledgeable about tractors that every single one he had come across had possessed some hidden trait that he wasn’t keen on. His first experience of driving a real tractor had to be perfect.
One day, Trevor was flicking through one of his favourite publications, Powertrain Quarterly, when there was a knock at the door. Trevor answered, and it was his friend and fellow tractor enthusiast, Jeff.
Trevor welcomed Jeff in, and over tea and crumpets served on tractor-themed crockery, they discussed the merits of aluminium drawbars and front-end loaders. Eventually Trevor pressed Jeff to explain the reason for his visit.
“Well” said Jeff, “As I’m sure you know the convention comes to town later”.
The convention. Trevor had been thinking of little else the past three weeks. The neighbouring town annually threw a convention for farmers, particularly farmyard machinery. There would be combine harvesters, lawnmowers, and of course, tractors.
“Yes of course” replied Trevor, “But what of your visit? I take it you have some sort of special news?”
“Very much so” said Jeff. Trevor could tell that Jeff was struggling to contain his glee.
“I’ve heard a word on the grapevine that a Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000 will be there”.
Trevor nearly choked on his tea. The Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000. Trevor immediately ran to the cabinet where he kept his tractor publications, and started rifling through the various annuals and magazines, before he found what he was looking for: the Forbes Guide of the Best Tractors. He flicked through the pages until he was satisfied, and then excitedly showed the result to Jeff.
“You mean this?” he gestured gleefully, stabbing his finger at the page. It was a review of the Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000, and by jove was it glowing.
This was the tractor that Trevor had been searching for his whole life.
“Oh yes” said Jeff, “The very same one.”
“Then when we go, we absolutely have to try it”.
The convention was three weeks away, but Trevor could not contain his excitement. Every day he would spend hours reading up on the Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000 in every detail. He would struggle to sleep at night over excitement of first seeing the Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000. And when he finally did succumb to slumber, he would dream of owning a Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000 of his very own.
Finally, after what seemed like an age, the day came.
…
As per every year, Trevor and Jeff were both first in line when the convention opened. They had camped out the night before, just outside the entrance to where the convention was to take place. As soon as they paid the entrance fee, they set about, scurrying through every exhibit.
Trevor pored over every item on display. He spent hours making notes on tractor designs that he saw, and simply admiring the machinery on display. However, the time eventually came where he could wait no longer, and he started looking specifically for the Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000.
It took a while to find the Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000, as the exhibition was so vast. Ut, after some searching, Trevor stopped dead in his tracks. There it was.
The enormous machine was surrounded by a huge crowd, so Trevor had to barge and push his way to the front to get a better view. He gawked at the specification of the thing. It held the world-tractor speed record (98 mph). It had the smoothest ride, best suspension, biggest tires, and best overall performance of any tractor in the world. Then Trevor spotted something that almost made his heart explode.
A sign read “FREE RIDES WITH INSTRUCTOR TODAY. EXPERIENCE THE TARROCK-FUCHS XM1-5000 FOR YOURSELF!”
Trevor steadied himself, took an aspirin, and then headed over to the small booth, were a line had formed of people wanting to drive the Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000.
…
Trevor’s heart bounced as his foot squeezed on the accelerator pedal. The great beast lumbered gently forwards, and Trevor was ecstatic. His dreams had been realized.
“Steady as she does it” advised the instructor as the tractor gradually gathered pace. The Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000 was gliding seamlessly over the rough terrain, the state-of-the-art suspension cushioning the ride with ease. It felt like the perfect blend of Rolls-Royce comfort with military-grade off-road performance.
The instructor glanced at Trevor. Something was wrong.
Trevor’s pupils were dilated. He was sweating profusely. His sweat-drenched hands were clamped onto the steering wheel in a death grip. His face was heavily contorted.
“Trevor?” asked the instructor nervously. Trevor did not respond. His condition did not improve. His foot descended further on the accelerator pedal. The tractor gathered speed.
“Trevor?!” the instructor half-shouted. But it was no use.
The many years that Trevor had studied and waited for this moment, were too much for his conscience to bear. He was in a trance. He was disconnected from reality; his psyche was unable to cope with the extreme level of joy he was experiencing. It was as though he was paralyzed; he was fully aware of his situation, but unable to do anything about it.
At this point, the tractor was seriously gathering speed. The smooth ride was gone, now the tractor was bouncing over the field at over fifty miles an hour.
“TREVOR!” bellowed the instructor. He tried to take control: he grabbed the steering wheel, but Trevor’s iron grip would not yield. Trevor’s foot was now firmly buried in the throttle; being in the world’s fastest tractor was now a matter of life and death.
The instructor turned to look ahead. He was horrified by what he saw. They had travelled so far that they were almost at the end of the field. At the field’s edge was a deep ditch. The tractor, although now racing at full pelt, would not make the jump.
The instructor grabbed Trevor and tried to wrestle him from the controls, but it was no use. Trevor’s loss of bodily consciousness was carrying them both towards almost certain death. The instructor made one last, fruitless attempt to recover Trevor’s senses, before turning and leaping clear.
Trevor knew what was happening, but he had no way of stopping what was coming next. His eyes wide in horror, and his foot still glued to the floor, the tractor hurled off the edge of the field and into oblivion.
…
Trevor’s vision was ablaze. His head was spinning, and he could barely hear or see. His hearing was clouded, as though someone had fired a gun in close proximity to his ear. He could only hear what sounded like muffled shouting. He tried to move, but he was trapped beneath the wreckage.
The next thing he felt was a pair of arms grabbing him by his upper body. His vision started to clear. He could see as few people moving around him; they were clearing the wreckage so they could drag him out. Blurred figures were running towards the ruined tractor – now starting to catch fire – with extinguishers.
Something that was in his way was moved, and he was free. Several people grabbed him, dragging him to his feet, and half-carried him to a waiting ambulance. Trevor was dazed; he couldn’t make sense of anything.
..
Trevor was taken for a thorough examination at the local hospital. Miraculously he hadn’t broken anything, but he had concussion and severe bruising. The Tarrock-Fuchs XM1-5000 had not been kind to him.
His family came to visit him, along with the tractor instructor and several other officials from the show. Luckily the tractor instructor had sustained only minor injuries from his fall. Trevor apologized profusely. He could not forgive himself for almost killing this man.
Trevor was eventually discharged from the hospital, with a full set of therapy sessions booked in. His excitement at the prospect of driving a tractor for the first time had brewed over thirty years, and in the moment when the chance finally came, it had boiled over, in a way that was almost fatal.
…
Trevor mulled over the events of that fateful day for several long weeks. Eventually, he came to a shocking, life-changing decision.
He did not like tractors any more.
Within the next week, his house was stripped bare. Out went the tractor bed sheets. Out went the tractor pajamas. Out went the tractor wallpaper, crockery, magazines, books, DVDs, carpets, shirts, the lot. Trevor wanted nothing more than to rid his life of infernal tractors.
When he had gutted the house, and all his tractor-themed possessions were filling several skips at the front of his house, Trevor sat down on his front porch, and burst into tears.
…
Months later, Trevor was sat in his local pub, surrounded by empty jars of ale. Without tractors, he was nothing. He had turned to drink for solace, and he had spent many a penny at his local watering hole, drowning his sorrows. Most of the pub regulars kept a wide berth from him; he had previously been known locally as Tractor Man, but now any mention of those machines near Trevor sparked off bouts of post-traumatic-stress, so everyone knew to give him space.
Trevor sat silently, contemplating his future. It was looking bleak; now that tractors had been removed, something had to fill the void. But he had no idea what could.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something. No…someone.
A young, blond-haired girl was sat in the corner of the pub, alone. Her body language suggested strongly that she didn’t want to be there. She wasn’t drinking; she was simply sat still, staring into space.
Trevor felt some compulsion to approach her. So he did.
“Excuse me” he murmured as he stepped up to her table. The girl looked up. She had the beginnings of tears in her eyes.
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
The girl invited him to sit down, and she told her story. Her name was Sue, and she had once been the landlady at this very pub. She had inherited it through three successive generations, and was very proud.
The pub had had a smoking ban during Sue’s time, and she had enjoyed the cleanliness of the air. But, a few months ago, a highly litigious gentleman had visited her pub, and insisted that he should be able to smoke wherever and whenever he damned well pleased. Sue had tried to reason with him, asking him first to stop smoking, or to do it outside, but eventually she was forced to ask him to leave. Enraged, the man had taken the pub to court, where he managed to swing the jury into letting him win a case against Sue on counts of discrimination. Sue had to sell the pub to cover her legal costs, and the smoking ban was lifted. Now, all smokers in the town had flocked to the pub, as it was one of the very few in town where smoking was allowed, and were reveling in the new found freedom. All the while, Sue grew sadder that her pub, her baby, had fallen awry under her tenure of care.
…
Trevor looked around. The pub was indeed stuffed with acrid, black smoke. The accompanying, putrid stench was unbearable.
On cue, Trevor stood up. In one, deep, almighty breath, he sucked the entire bar clean of the dirty, acrid smoke. No-one in the bar had ever seen anything like it. With one almighty puff Trevor had cleared out the foul stench and the bar smelt as clear as a field on a summer’s day.
Trevor swallowed, and calmly sat down. Sue was ecstatic.
“Trevor!” she exclaimed, so surprised she was struggling for words, “That was amazing! How on earth did you do that?!”
“Well,” said Trevor proudly, sitting up straight,
“I’m an ex-tractor fan”.
Thanks to Vincent for sending us this really cool Magical Rope Trick:
https://biggeekdad.com/2016/08/magical-rope-trick/
If you don’t remember her name in the morning, take her to Starbucks.
It was a sad and disappointing day when I discovered my Universal Remote Control did not, in fact, control the Universe.
(Not even remotely.)
OMG! ARE YOU SHITTING ME! Illinois has just ended cash bail bonds. So, if a judge deems that a person is not dangerous, he can be released on bond with no cash needed. This is so fucking stupid on so many levels. How can you 
possibly … just when I think that people in charge can’t get any dumber. The Governor of Illinois …
J. B. Pritzker
Okay … we might as well get into this now …
A dumb ass with a pen is a lot more worrisome than a smart ass with a Tweet.
Damn. It’s too bad we didn’t have an extra 25,000 troops last summer when honest, hard working people had their businesses burned to the ground.
SILVER ALERT: 78 year old male wandering in DC. Thinks he is president.
Do you recall President Obama referring to the Benghazi incident as “a bump in the road?”
Recently, I heard an ex-Navy SEAL being interviewed on Fox News regarding a book he has written about how to handle crisis situations in our lives.
At the end of the interview he asked if he could make a comment on Benghazi and, of course, the anchor said “yes.” He then thanked Fox News for keeping the Benghazi story in the news, since other news organizations are not.
He said the SEALs who died deserve the public knowing the truth about the whole affair.
The poem was written by an anonymous Marine Corps officer:
“THE BATTLING BOYS OF BENGHAZI”
We’re the battling boys of Benghazi,
No fame, no glory, no paparazzi.
Just a fiery death in a blazing hell,
defending our country we loved so well.
It wasn’t our job, but we answered the call,
Fought to the Consulate and scaled the wall.
We pulled twenty countrymen from the jaws of fate,
led them to safety and stood at the gate.
Just the two of us and foes by the score,
but we stood fast to bar the door.
Three calls for reinforcement, but all were denied,
so we fought and we fought and we fought ’til we died.
We gave our all for our Uncle Sam,
but Barack and Hillary didn’t give a damn.
Just two dead SEALs who carried the load,
No thanks to us…we were just “Bumps in the Road”.
Marsha M
I’m so confused….how did you get a picture of me saying my prayers? I don’t have an Alexa in my home..and who is that other chick? I knew this place was haunted. Does this mean I wont get the cake or shoes…not sharing George and the 1st line was just to get God in a laughing mood so I could ask for other 3. Oh and it was 93 degrees warmer on Tuesday from the Tuesday last…made it to 73…heat wave was nice. Enjoy my days with your stuff…will that count as exposed? Please.
Okay, lots of stuff to address here Marsha dear … first of all for those of you who don’t remember what picture Marsha is talking about, here it is again to the right.
As to how I got the picture, best you not know the answer to that question, suffice it to say that I have my sources and there are things that I can’t get into in an open forum like this one.
The other chick? Yes, indeed. You are correct. Your place is haunted. But, I thought you knew that, so didn’t think it would be much of a surprise when the picture was published. When I last spoke with God, he told me that he knew the Peace on Earth thing was just for him and he appreciated the joke. He’ll see what he can do about the cake and the shoes, but … um … I’ve got bad news about George. There’s kind of a long line ahead of you.
Glad you are enjoying your days spent with my “stuff”. Should I let you up out of the dungeons or are you still comfortable down there? And yes, that does indeed count as exposure. Enjoy!
Any salad can be a Caesar Salad if you stab it enough.
“A vodka, please.”
“Sir, this is McDonald’s.”
“Okay, a McVodka, please…and supersize it.”
I’ve done that … and I’ve done the opposite. I’ve tried to blink away a fly that was flying in the room thinking it was a floater in my eye.
And that, my friends, is that for today. My quarantine is officially over and I go back to work on Monday. That’s a good thing cause I’ve got a LOT to catch up on. Can I just make one observation before I end today?
Did you guys here about poor Lady Gaga’s dogs? What a terrible thing! She’s offered half a million dollars for their safe return, no questions asked. She’s distraught over their being dog-napped. And NOT A FUCKING WORD OVER THE “LONG TIME FRIEND” AND LOYAL DOG WALKER WHO WAS SHOT IN THE CHEST TRYING TO PROTECT HER PRECIOUS FUCKING DOGS!!! No reward offered for justice for this poor sap. Nothing. It’s nice to know that your life isn’t worth shit but the animals that you took care of and walked for your “friend” are worth a quarter of a million dollars each. No justice for you so long as she gets her dogs back. Dear God, what have we come to?
People like this get what they deserve. Next year’s headline reads: City Folks Mauled by Bears
Dragon Laffs 