Lemme Tell Ya How To Spend That Money

I’m certainly not the first person to shake my head in amazement at hair-brained scientific studies which waste crazy amounts of government money finding out that donuts make us fat or that, on average, dogs like to turn around 2.7 revolutions before lying down.  Though I admit to wondering whether dogs south of the equator turn counter-clockwise like the whole water-down-the-drain thing.

It’s understandable that we have issues with public monies in the form of grants and such getting used for frivolous studies when there are tens of thousands of us who could have used that money to get iPhones and European sedans.

Let’s not waste any more time pissing and moaning about stupid “scientific” misuses of tax payor dollars.  I’d rather focus on the wasting of other dollars.  Money which I never really had any claim to in the first place; funds raised by foundations and groups for the pursuit of one holy grail or another.

I read about the most recent expedition of teams of scientists flying to the furthest reaches of the South Pacific trying to find Amelia Earhart’s crash site.  When and if someone finds it, everyone will be like “Oh! Thank Goodness!  Now we know conclusively that her plane went down and she died”  Does anyone really doubt that happened?  Does it matter to anyone whether she was killed in a crash?  Is there really any chance that she survived and lived off of poi and roasted sea gull until being rescued by local fishermen, who sold her into the lucrative white slave markets of Tonga?

What about the romance angle?  Earhart was flying with navigator Fred Noonan.  They left Papua New Guinea on July 2, 1937 and were never seen again.  Isn’t it possible that the two of them just wanted to get away from it all and build a happy love nest on some small atoll?  How has no one ever pursued that angle?

Okay, so we know she got in the plane, here’s a photo. We know she was over a desolate part of the world with few islands and mostly vast expanses of open water. We know she disappeared. Hmmm…what could have happened? It’s a mystery I tell ya! (image from scholastic.com)

The big appeal of the Earhart disappearance is that no one knows for certain, and these people really want to know, definitively, what happened.  I can understand the itch of not knowing and needing to to know something.  Still, there are plenty of other mysteries which we don’t have an answer to, but have generated a fraction of the funds toward solving.

I’d like to propose that they spend less of that private money on finding Amelia Earhart and more of it on finding Big Foot.  We already have plenty of evidence that Amelia existed, and have lots of facts about her exploits, except the very last thing she did.  Bigfoot, on the other hand, has been much more elusive.

There have been reports of Bigfoot’s existence for a great many years in cultures around the world.  He’s known by different names in different parts of the world, including Sasquatch, Yeti and Shaq.  This creature has lived in our world for thousands of years, and yet we have no evidence of him.  No fur, no definite tracks, no bones or remains, not even a single turd.

I showed this pic to a few ladies I know, and the consensus is that this female Sasquatch might have had a little work done. Just too perky for a mature Bigfoot female in their collective opinion. I’m more curious why she decided to have her picture taken in front of a backdrop of fake woods when she lives in a real forest. (Image from bigfootevidence.blogspot.com)

Let’s let those facts sink in for a moment shall we?  There is no trace of Bigfoot really.  These giant creatures have lived in the wilderness for all these centuries and have managed to pick up after themselves and refrain from carving their initials in a single sequoia.  They’ve been so fastidious about not leaving a mess behind that some folks point to the lack of a physical evidence and question whether Bigfoot even exists.

We humans, on the other hand, can’t even make ourselves a cup of coffee and have a morning sit-down without leaving carbon footprints which are visible from outer space.  Considering the wreckless pace at which we’re driving the planet toward becoming a globally-warmed, trash-island-having, toxic waste site, we need to find Bigfoot and soon.  Without his secrets for clean living, we’re doomed.

As long as we’re on the subject, in thousands of years, the Loch Ness Monster has polluted less water than the average 30 minute jet-ski rental.  This is likely due to the fact that, unlike Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster doesn’t actually exist.  I mean come on, people, you can’t really believe that nonsense, right?

Life On the Trail – True Tales from the Easter Bunny

Hippity Hoppity my fluffy white ass.  The trail is a bitch.

I’m down at the Pinewood, sipping on a short, dirty glass of cheap Canadian.  My beer back-up is looking a little flat.  This place is a long way from the Ritz, but you’d still think they’d wash the glasses a little more often.

The Round Man is sitting next to me.  Got himself swiveled on the stool while he’s chatting up some bimbo.  He’s jolly alright, but for all the hype about his taste in behaviors, he definitely leans more toward the naughty girls than the nice ones.  Next to him are three of the wee ones – two of Round Man’s best workers plus Irish.  That little dude is a mean SOB when he’s gettin’ his drink on.  I’m glad he’s four seats away from me.  You never know when some drunk college kid will come in and call him Chuckie or Lucky Charms or something and next thing you know, the cops are comin’ in and somebody’s gonna need stitches.  Still, I gotta admit, the three of ’em look cute sitting up there on barstools with their little feet so far off the floor.

The trail can wear a bunny down, make him cold, drive him into questionable locales. (Illustration by the author - That's right, I'm a freakin' Renaissance Man!)

We don’t always hang out like this, but sometimes I like to chill out with a few of my buddies who understand life on the trail.  There used to be better attendance at these get-togethers, but some of the usual crew’s drifted apart.  The T-Fairy prefers a different kind of bar, and that’s fine by me – to each his own right?  Jackie Frost, may he rest in peace, is gone but not forgotten.  Freakin’ global warming pretty much did him in.

Let’s not get it twisted, I aint no retiree in a Bunny suit down at the mall gettin’ my pic snapped with your brat for five bucks a throw.  I’m talking the real deal here – these ears aint clip-ons.

Like I said at the start, life on the trail’s a bitch.  I smell like freakin’ Hershey, Pee-Ay 6 months out of the year from all the crap I’m delivering.  Don’t think it isn’t a little weird to be spending a large part of my life carrying around giant, hollow chocolate replicas of myself.  Then droppin’ em off only to have the parents of these kids eat the ears off a day or two later.  It’s a heavy load knowing I’m guiding the youth of the world down the path toward obesity and diabetes.

I had to get therapy for that crap.  I finally gave up on talking to the shrink.  He blamed my issues on my father.  That was the last straw for me.  My father!?  How much of a presence in your life can your father be when you have 237 brothers and sisters?  Besides, the mental health waiver on my insurance sucked.  I’d rather spend that co-pay money on shots and beers and get my counseling from the Round Man and maybe one of his naughty girls if she has a friend.  You know what I mean?

Don’t get me wrong, the trail isn’t all sore paws and nightmares about waking up with my ears bit off.  I’ve had some good times too.  Some wild crap goes on out there.  This one time, outside of Dubuque, Iowa, this chick walks in on me when I’m hiding eggs and filling baskets.  She’s half in the bag and reeks of Malibu rum.  Anyway, she must be on her way to the head when she sees me standin’ there with a handful of Marshmallow Peeps, and she just goes nuts.  You know the whole “I can’t believe you’re really really real!”  song and dance.  She goes on to tell me how she always hoped I was real, but findin’ out -well that’s somethin’ special.  Then a little light goes on in her drunken head and she realizes that she aint wearing much more than her hubby’s Drake University T-shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks.  Well…one thing leads to another and let’s just say I didn’t do nothin’ to hurt the stereotypes about the bunny nation, if you follow my drift.

Stories like that, they happen, but it aint the usual.  The usual is more like people with hi-tech security systems and Rottweilers.  Bratty kids whose parents have convinced them that Easter aint nothin’ but Christmas in the Spring.  Chocolate and malted milk candy eggs can weigh a rabbit down, but they don’t compare to Nintendo Wii’s and bikes.  I got a couple dentists I play golf with in the off season and they aint too happy with that trend – believe you me.  My chiropractor – he’s happy as crap.

So in a few days we’ll close up shop and I can try to relax and enjoy the off-season.  Me and the Round Man are gonna hit the links and maybe do some fishing.  The trail aint no easy time, but fishin’ for wahoo and throwing back a few frosties can help me forget my tender paws and aching back for a while.

Uh oh.  Looks like a couple of frat boys are startin to bust on Irish a little.  It might be time to hit the bathroom until the smoke clears.  I’ll see you kids next year, okay?