"2024 Mercedes: Code Blue"

 

Over time, the engineers within the automobile industry, have added nerve endings into the cars, so today, whenever your particular vehicle isn’t feeling quite well, it can tell you where it hurts.

This little indicator says my foot hurts, and sure enough, you check and see that the tire pressure is low in the left front.  This nerve is attached directly to your car’s cough control center, letting you know it is running a little rough and could use a little mentholated oil treatment. 

Mechanics today require sophisticated diagnostics to untangle the multitude of nerves running around and through your car.  They need the ability to separate the moderate from the severe.  Ultimately, backyard car repair has become a thing of the past. 

With the cost of car repairs soaring, I expect it won’t be long before we see Insurance companies popping up everywhere, specializing in short and long-term car care.  Eventually there will be retirement garages, offering a place where your pampered family SUV can live out its days.  An exercise track out back, complementary Rain-X in the lobby and walk-in car washes. 

I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, I’ve changed coffee brands.  This post seems to be one of the side effects.  I’ll try to control this in the future.

 

zc

 

 

 

 

 

 

Easter at the Home

 

No cups of dye
No colored eggs
No twitchy bunny nose

No hidden prize
for us to find
No need for Sunday clothes

No plate of ham
No relatives
No feast upon the table

No gravy on potatoes mashed
the cook can’t find the ladle.

 

 

 

Return to Sender

 

I’ve no concern for the postman’s shoes

or the mileage that they’re getting,

For postage stamps we sing the blues

it’s rather quite up setting,

 

One letter is a dollar spent

hardly fair I’d say –

and still they don’t know where it went

but I’ll bet the other way,

 

Extinct are giant phonebooks

so thick and heavy too,

Catalogs were just as bad

worn thin are postman’s shoes

 

So now I must divide my friends

put each one in their camp –

is each one really such a friend

that they're worth a postage stamp?

 

Christmas cards have gone away

Birthday’s get a text –

marriages and funerals

condolences, at best

 

In this age of information

It appears we all must bail

and give a sad and fine farewell

to the dying U.S. Mail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turkey

 

I’ve noticed that

when turkey’s trot

their heads move front to back

 

It may seem odd

but then again

It’s swinging arms they lack

 

But what then of their vision

Seeing close, then looking far

I saw one riding on a truck

But never in a car

 

I noticed when there’s more than one

They stay in single file

I know they fly but when they do

It’s only for a while

 

I’ve never seen them on the lake

They’ve not served in the Navy

But should you ever see one drown

I hope it’s been in gravy.

 

 

 

 

 No turkeys were harmed.

 

 

 

Watching the Watchers

 

One of the swings at the park squeaks as it swings back and forth.  To everyone who doesn’t know it is the swing making that sound, it appears like some exotic bird. 

I have personally seen a small group of birders, armed with their binoculars, skulking around the park trying to see this elusive creature.   Of course, to the rest of us, who already know the source of the sound, it is the group of birders that have become the day's entertainment.

 

 

 

 

4,010 Views

 

Yesterday, a bus full of mannequins walked into this blog.  They were from Singapore.  They didn’t read a single post, leave a comment or point out any spelling errors.  They simply exaggerated the visitor count.  They are robots designed for only that purpose.

When attempting to examine the reason for this, all I could come up with is that somewhere in Singapore a maker of mannequins has made way too many.  His supply far exceeds the demand for mannequins.   Now, not sure what to do with all of these arms, legs and faceless heads, he sets them on a bus and tells them to just stay out for the day, visit places, have lunch, stand in a window, just don’t come back until dinnertime. 

When they all got off the bus and walked into my Blog, the little turnstile kept clicking as one by one they entered.  Now that is something I would have liked to snap a picture of.  Of course, I have no idea how they were dressed, or how they were posed, but still, what an image that would have made for my Blog.

Thanks, Singapore.

 

Cats Don't Wear Shoes

 

The cat’s whiskers let it know if it is going to fit through the door or opening in front of him.  My whiskers are not all that helpful.  They let others know that either I over-slept or simply became too lazy to shave.  The odds of me fitting through the door are determined by other means.  Standing up, can I see my shoes?  Does the airline make me buy two seats?  Instead of my weight, does my scale read, Please, one at a time. 

Just outside of my window I see a lizard doing pushups.  Rather than take that as a hint, I will continue with this ramble about whiskers.  I’ve always found shaving to be tedious and a result of a poor human design.  Why put facial hair on humans?  Why have it eventually disappear from their head and yet continue to sprout from their nose and ears?  Really… what’s the point? 

I believe the thing that is missing here is evolution 2.0

As we evolve, there should be a physical change directly associated with our cultural advancement.  As we progress through society, so should our appearance reflect that change.  

When we left the hunting and gathering stage, we removed our boots and put on wingtips.  Leaving the industrial age we exchanged hardhats and safety glasses for fedoras and Foster Grants.  Now, being knee-deep in the information age, facial recognition is only hindered by beards and eyebrows that point North.  We should have grown out of the Z.Z. Top phase of humanity.

 

I’ll leave it at that.

 

zc