There 'tis. See the antennae?

There ’tis. See the antennae?

Did you know there are practically no protocols in place to prevent a sitting US president from unilaterally ordering a nuclear strike?

It’s true.

The idea is that America’s nuclear arsenal must be equipped for fast deployment to properly deter an attack. The president must therefore have the ability to launch a strike quickly and without delay. The Secretary of Defense is required to verify the order, but cannot legally veto it.

As then-Vice President Dick Cheney in 2008:

“The president could launch a kind of devastating attack the world’s never seen. He doesn’t have to check with anybody. He doesn’t have to call the Congress. He doesn’t have to check with the courts. He has that authority because of the nature of the world we live in.”

Chilling, really.

You see, the President is always accompanied by a military aide carrying a ” Nuclear Football” with launch codes for nuclear weapons. The football is a metal briefcase carried in a black leather jacket. The package weighs around 45-pounds. A small antenna protrudes from the bag near the handle. You can see it in the photo up top.

However, there is a scenario that would allow the Secretary of Defense to refuse to relay the order and use his codes to launch –  theoretically, he could make a quick call to the Cabinet and Congress and report that the President had gone bonkers. The Cabinet could then declare the President unfit in a letter to Congress.

Slim chance that would happen, though, so there’s that.

Anyway, food for thought, huh?

When I posted the original “Remnants of Old Route 50” blog I assumed maybe 5-people would care. Turns out it’s one of the most viewed in the history of this site. Who knew? Anyway, what you’ll see below is an old tunnel that went under Old Route 50, about a mile east of Bourneville on the left. If you turn into where they have the motocross races and take a quick right and go about 100-yards you can find it. Pretty cool.

PS: Coming soon will be photos of Old Route 50 west of Bainbridge.

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If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times. nobody writes the headlines like me, amirite? I mean, who couldn’t click on that title?

Listen, I always knew something was up with Matt Damon. Dude has always acted like he knew something the rest of us didn’t, ya know?

Anyway, as we all know, Matt Damon looks like this:

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And here’s a recently discovered photo. It was taken in 1964.

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Yep, that’s Matt Damon alright. He definitely traveled through time or doesn’t age. Bro probably has wives in every decade for the past five-hundred years.

Anyhoo, Matt Damon? You, my man, have been busted.

Peaceful.

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In 2016, North Korea accidentally leaked its DNS data, showing they only have 28 “.kp” domains. In comparison, there are 10 million “.uk” domains.

 

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So Minnesota Vikings running back and noted child-beater Adrian Peterson has gone to Twitter to preach to the masses about the horrors of child abuse.

Oh no he din’t.

Yo Adrian, didn’t you see what happened to Ray Lewis just a couple days ago?

Yep, the Trolls of Twitter were having none of it, calling out Mr. Peterson with the vengeance of a thousand hell demons.

Here’s Adrian’s original, unfortunate tweet:

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Alas, it was a poor decision.

Here’s the first retort:

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Followed by:

Didn’t you abuse your son to the point of seeing blood? And you only got probation?

And then:

Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you get probation for beating the shit out of your 4-year old son?

Oh boy.Then along comes this gem:

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And finally, you always have the one guy who sort of misses the entire point and cuts right to the heart of the matter, hitting where it hurts the most:

You’re not good anymore.

Ouch. That one had to hurt. Bottom line? Don’t mess with The Twitter, boys.

 

The Clowns Are Coming

Posted: September 24, 2016 in Fears, Humor, Things I Hate
Tags:

ABC News: Days after several reports of spooky clowns alarming residents in California, pranksters in similar costumes are popping up in other states.

Sgt. Tom Weger of the Fishers Police Department in Indiana thinks his town is dealing with a copycat.

Chills, man.

Chills, man.

“We have had over the past week three calls of a suspicious person dressed in a creepy clown outfit,” Weger told ABC News today. “We believe it’s just one individual dressing up as a clown and kind of creeping people out a bit.”

The reports come after similar sightings this month in Bakersfield, California, and the launch of social media accounts using the name “Wasco Clown,” showing a scary clown posing at different locations in Bakersfield and nearby cities.

Fishers, Indiana, isn’t alone in the new sightings, days before Halloween residents of Albuquerque, New Mexico, were recently spooked when a scary clown posed for a photo in front of a local restaurant and posted it on social media. But the clown, Tickles, told ABC affiliate KOAT-TV in Albuquerque that he didn’t mean any harm by the scary photo.

And clowns have also reportedly appeared in Jacksonville, Florida, popping up on security footage.

The World Clown Association says such spooky sightings are giving clowns a bad rap.

“People dressed as horror clowns are not ‘real clowns,'” president-elect Randy Christensen said. “They are taking something innocent and wholesome and perverting it to create fear in their audience.”

Lordy.

You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? The clowns are coming.

For years, clowns built up goodwill throughout the world, appearing at birthday parties, circuses and carnivals, making balloon animals and squirting people with whatever the hell comes out of that flower on their chest. Some even appeared on television under names like Bozo and Clarabell. We even had our own local clown, Flippo.

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Flippo.

Flippo was nightmare fuel, man.

Famous actors even portrayed clowns. Respected men like Red Skelton and Soupy Sales had clown characters as a part of their act.

Clowns were everywhere, man. And now, this. The true nature of clowns is emerging.

A few of us have always known something was amiss. Something was missing behind the make-up and painted-on smiles.

Something awful lurked there.

Perhaps the trouble all started with Willard Scott, goofball weatherman for the Today Show. He was a clown, you know. Dude never seemed right.

Or maybe it was John Wayne Gacy, serial killer of at least 33 young boys in Chicago.

He buried the boys under his house. Part-time job? Clown.

And now the clowns are tired of pretending, weary of playing out the fraudulent pretense of being friendly, nose-honking fun-makers.

Yes, the clown’s true nature is emerging, and it is horrifying. The clowns ain’t playin’, man.

Soon, Ronald McDonald will be revealed as a poisoner of Big Macs, perhaps the murderer of Mayor McCheese.

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Good God.

The Hamburglar will be found strangled in his sleep, with strands of bright red hair found at the scene.

Facts will be unearthed involving Bozo, the information unspeakable and abhorrent.

Yes, the true nature of clowns will soon be revealed to all, and it won’t be funny.

Note: I still can’t wrap my head around a World Clown Association. Just too terrible to contemplate.

Note 2: Say what you want, Tickles the Clown. I’m not buying it.

Note 3: Remember when I was threatened by an angry clown? That was pretty scary. Hope he doesn’t read this.

Note 4: I stupidly clicked on a “Clowns Near You” link while researching for this article, and while I was terrified the answer would be “right behind you”, this dude popped up. Calls himself Mr. Bugaboo. Sweet God Almighty.bugaboo

So the Free Hugs Project visited Charlotte and ran into some resistance. Thoughts?

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So former Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis went to Twitter today to rayraymake his latest holier than thou proclamation. See, Ray found God after walking away scot-free from a double-murder back in 2000. Since Ray has found God and can pass judgement on the rest of us, he felt he needed to chime in on people and their use of Twitter.

Here’s Ray’s initial tweet:

How much better would the world be if we pandered for God’s approval the way we do Twitter approval?

Oh boy. Oh, Ray, how could you not know how the twitterverse would respond? Here are a just a few of the salvos fired back at Ray-Ray. Most are pretty straight-forward. To wit . . .

Uh, you killed multiple people.

Can’t get much more direct than that, right? Oh. Maybe you can . . .

You stabbed a guy and got away with it.

Boom! Roasted. This next guy brought Ray’s family into the mix . . .

Brother, you beat a murder case and your son was indicted for rape charges, practice what you tweet.

Burn! This next gentleman referred to Ray’s tweet and ran with it:

How much better would the world be if we didn’t murder other people?

Can’t argue with that, can we? Then we have a bro who, being an atheist and all, pointed out his beliefs to Ray. Then he followed that with a cold blast of reality:

Well Ray, Twitter is real and God is not. Also, you’re a murderer.

Finally, we have a dude who went the sarcasm route:

Ah, God’s linebacker dispensing wisdom. Those two boys still dead?

That had to hurt. Bottom line, Ray? Judge not, lest ye be judged. And man, have you been judged.

Back in the early days of my teaching career I had a student in my Reading class named Ricky that mkjihhhwas constantly getting into trouble. He came from a tough background, but he was really a pretty smart kid. I was always telling him that he was better than he was acting, and he actually cleaned up his act eventually. But Rick is not the focus of this story . . .

Rick’s father was a truck driver named Tom who traveled all over the country, and one day at a local bar he introduced himself to me. This was when his kid was still getting into trouble a couple times a week, and I mentioned this to his dad. We talked about Rick for awhile, and then Tom surprised me with this statement:

“I think he does pretty well, much better than I ever did. Hell, I never even learned to read.”

I sort of chuckled, asked if he was serious, and damned if he wasn’t. Said he couldn’t read much at all. But how was this possible? How did he get through school? Here was a guy who drove an 18-wheeler cross country every week. How did he read maps? Menus? Pass the written part of his driving test? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. In addition, he explained that his son was terribly embarrassed by him, he felt horrible about it, and it just ate him up inside.

Tom told me that when he drove, he’d memorize the letters on a map and then look for them on road signs. He said that when eating, he’d stick to diners or fast-food joints where he could stick to hamburgers or something simple. He said he could write his name and a few other words, but that was about it. Bottom line, he thought Rick was doing pretty well in comparison to him.

But as we talked, it became clear to me that this was a really smart guy who’d somehow fallen through the educational cracks. To be able to make a living, hold down a full-time job, hell, just being able to bluff your way through life without having the ability to read is a pretty amazing feat.

As I sat at the bar listening to Tom’s story, I had a thought. Should I ask? What the hell, I finally just blurted it out:

“Why don’t you let me teach you to read?”

He just kept his head down, and for about 30-seconds he didn’t say a word. Finally, he spoke:

Tom: “How long would it take?”

Me: “Hell, I don’t know. I’ve never taught anybody to read before.”

We both got a good laugh out of that one, but it was true. I’d taught junior high reading for a couple years but it was more of a literature class. Actually teaching kids to read was left to the specialists and primary teachers for the most part. That said, I figured what the hell? How hard could it be?

Me: “Seriously, I have no idea. A couple years to become really good? A year? We’ll just have to start and see what happens.”

Tom: “Two years? Boy, I don’t know. I’ll be almost 40-years old in two years.”

Me: “Well, you’re planning on being 40 anyway, right? Why not be 40 and also be able to read?”

Long story short, he agreed, I talked to a couple literacy people at school for advice, bought some books, set up a schedule, and I began meeting Tom twice a week in my room at school after hours. I remember someone telling me that newspapers were written at a 7th grade level, so that was our goal – 7th grade.

And you know what? Turns out Tom was a quick learner. In a little less than a year he was reading at that 7th grade level, and he achieved it well over a year before reaching 40.

Seriously, it was a pretty amazing how quickly he picked it up. It felt like he went through 10-years of school in 10-months. And he became an avid reader, just soaking information in like a sponge. It was like a blind man seeing for the first time.

The last time we met I brought some of my favorite books for Tom to read – On the Road, The Catcher in the Rye, Animal Farm, Lord of the Flies, The Hobbit and a few others. I knew it would be awhile before he’d be able to master them all, so I told him to keep them as long as he wanted. When I loan out books I have people write their thoughts about the book on the inside covers, and I told him to be sure and do so as well. There wasn’t a lot of emotion or anything as we said goodbye, he just said thank you, patted me on the shoulder, took the books and left. We didn’t have to say it – we were both proud of what he’d accomplished.

It was a few years later and I was teaching at another school when I next saw Tom. I was sitting at my desk during my free period, I looked up and there he was, standing in the doorway. He walked over and set the books I’d given him on my desk. We had a nice talk and he thanked me for everything again, said he didn’t know how he could ever repay me. I said it was my pleasure and had probably learned more from the experience than he had. Then we hugged and he left, giving me a wave over his shoulder as he departed.

Then, for some reason, I reached down and picked up the copy of The Hobbit. I opened it and there, on the inside cover, Tom had written this:

“I loved this book. Bilbo never knew he had it in him. But I guess you never really know what you’re capable of until you try, right?”

No, Tom. No you don’t.

The lesson here? Never, ever believe it’s too late to achieve something you really want. I know that’s sort of a worn-out cliché, but damn it, it’s true.

Just ask Tom.

A Lesson Learned

Posted: September 23, 2016 in Classroom, Life
Tags: ,

Note: I’m going to leave names and locations out of this story, although a lot of you will know who and where I’m talking about. There are no hard feelings regarding any of this, as I was young, hard-headed and stupid in many ways, sort of like I am now minus the young part. In addition, some people may remember what happened differently, and that’s cool. This is simply how I recall what happened.

It was during my third year of teaching when I learned a valuable lesson, a lesson that I’ll explain at the end of this recollection. As I said, I was young at the time, wasn’t particularly involved in teacher unions or anything like that, just excited about teaching and the future I had to look forward to. Anyway, here’s what happened . . .

I was teaching middle school Reading at the time and we had a pretty good thing going at our school. Our principal was a great guy, loved the kids, got along well with his staff, blah-blah-blah. Our high school? Not so much. The principal there was having some problems. I don’t even recall what those problems were, but suffice it to say trouble was afoot.

As administrations sometimes do, they made a decision that made zero sense. They simply decided to switch principals. Yep, their answer was to move the middle school principal to the high school and the high school principal to the middle school. While this decision was great for the high school, we at the middle school were pretty pissed about it.

So, a meeting was called. I’m not even sure who called it, all I remember is walking into a classroom where the entire staff had gathered to discuss this act of egregiousness.  As the teachers in the room were going back-and-forth regarding possible ways to deal with the problem,  I distinctly recall sitting in the back, talking with my buddy Joe about something, probably basketball or politics. At some point during the teacher’s discussion a decision was made to send a representative to talk to our superintendent, let him know how we felt as a staff.

To this day I don’t know how I was chosen to represent our staff, but maybe it was because I was young and idealistic, possibly because I didn’t give a damn, likely because I was naïve enough to think there would be no repercussions.

I should have recognized the foreshadowing of events to come when 4 or 5 of the more vocal teachers pulled me aside after the meeting or early the next morning and whispered something along the lines of, “Hey, you’re not going to mention any names over there, are you?”

Uh, no? But as I mentioned, I was young, idealistic, and evidently a little dumb.

The meeting had been after school, so the next morning I called over to our Superintendent’s Office to schedule an appointment, which was made for noon that day. After eating in my room I headed that way.

As I walked over I passed my aforementioned good friend and fellow coach Joe’s room, where he was sitting at his desk finishing his lunch. I stuck my head in and said, “Hey, I’m heading over for my meeting. Want to walk over with me?” He sort of shrugged, replied, “Sure,” and hopped up to join me. Just providing a little backup, nothing more.

Or so we thought.

We walked into the Supe’s office, sat down, and I expressed the feeling of the staff, being extra careful to not mention anyone by name. I basically just said the middle school staff was happy with the way things were and didn’t agree with the switching of principals. My friend Joe sat there and didn’t say a lot, although he did pitch in with a thought or two along the way.

When I finished I was basically expecting a “Thanks for your input Mr. Shoemaker. I’ll consider the staff’s opinion. Have a nice day.”

What I got instead was, “Well, if you two don’t think you can work with your new principal we can make other arrangements.”

Hold on a sec there, boss. What?

Number one, I was just the spokesperson. Number two, aren’t we all professionals here? Just because I don’t agree with the decision doesn’t mean I won’t continue to do my job the way I always have. What the hell?

At that point things got a little tense, but not out of hand. I sort of vocalized the points I made in the previous paragraph, and my buddy Joe added his 2-cents as well.

So, the meeting ended with some awkward handshakes and terse goodbyes, but I otherwise thought we’d made our point, been unceremoniously rebuked, and sent on our way. I was sort of shocked but otherwise unscathed. End of story.

Wrong.

The next morning I stopped at my mailbox, and in it was a letter informing me I was being transferred to one of our outlying middle schools in the district for the next school year. Stunned, I walk down to my room. Shortly thereafter Joe, the guy who had walked over with me because his room was on my way to the meeting, walks in holding a letter of his own. He was being transferred as well, to our other outlying school.

Nice.

And you know what? Although some parents complained, not one teacher spoke up in our defense.

In the end it turned out fine for me because I spent two wonderful years at the school I’d been transferred to, and I met some outstanding students and families who are friends to this day. Then I moved to Paint Valley where I taught until I retired. Joe only spent one year away before moving back to his original school when a job opened up.

All in all it was quite a learning experience, but my biggest lesson was this:

When things go bad a lot of people will talk big, but when it’s time to go to battle and you’re the one leading the charge, don’t look behind you.

There may not be anybody there.

Yahoo Sports: A poll of 1,128 Americans by Yahoo! Sports and the pollster kaep1YouGov revealed that 44% of NFL fans say they would stop watching NFL games if protests like the one first undertaken by Colin Kaepernick continue.

In related news, 44% of NFL fans who take part in polls by Yahoo Sports are lying, delusional morons. Seriously? People are going to stop watching football? Blah-freaking-blah. This reminds me of the people that were asked people how high gas prices would go before they quit buying gas and they’d answer, “$5.00 a gallon” or something. What are they going to do, ride a bicycle? Walk? Everyone has convictions until it gets down to the nitty gritty.

PS: Using words like “nitty gritty” is what separates me from your average blogger. You’re welcome. 

Yep, that’s a blue lobster alright. According to the Lobster Institute at the University of Maine, blue lobsters are estimated to occur just one in two million times. Why the blue color? It’s caused by a genetic defect, the institute explains, which creates an abundance of a protein that causes the blue hue. And yes kids, there is a Lobster Institute at the University of Maine. Anyhoo, Blue Lobster.

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A tool shop owner paid $100.00 for a locked abandoned storage unit, only to find the Lotus Esprit submarine prop from The Spy Who Loved Me inside. He sold it to Elon Musk for $825,000.000.

 

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What follows is my take on an old tale I heard years ago when I was a kid. Perhaps it was an Urban Legend, I can’t be sure. I just used the basic crux of the original story, all names, places and details have been created by me. Remember, this is my first attempt at true fiction so cut me a break. Hopefully, if people like this one, there will be more to follow . . .

Bobby Fallow was on the inside, doing time for the incredibly stupid crime of coffin_0robbing a gas station. He was desperately in need of money so he stole a gun from an uncle, put on a dumb George W. Bush mask, and went into a BP station in a town about thirty miles from where he lived. He proceeded to scare the bejesus out of the 50-something woman working the counter and made off with a grand total of $117.74, which he immediately wasted on booze over the next three days.

Bobby’s big mistake was bragging about his haul to his friend Gary, who had the brains of a blobfish. Gary’s father used to put it this way:

“You could put that boy’s brain in a flea’s ass and it would bounce around like a BB in a boxcar.”

So yeah, dumb.

The only guy in town dumber was probably Bobby, since he made the fateful decision to tell Gary he’d knocked over a damn gas station for $117.74.

Long story short, a couple days later the local po-po showed up at Bobby’s door and led him away in handcuffs. A court appointed attorney could do nothing to help, nor did he put forth much of an effort in the process.

So, eight freaking years, maybe five if Bobby could keep his nose clean and not piss off the wrong gang banger.

For Bobby, that was five years too long. He had to get out, man.

Midway through his second year of hell, he was transferred to the prison mortuary. Yeah, guys died in prison, more than you think, especially in a facility as big as the the Louisiana State Penitentiary, also known as the Alcatraz of the South. With well over 6,000 prisoners, the facility was one of the biggest in the United States.

The idea came to Bobby early, probably in his third week working in the prison morgue. As he stood watching a hearse pull away, taking some poor soul’s body to a cemetery off prison grounds, the idea hit him like a jolt of electricity from Gruesome Gertie, the name given by inmates to the old electric chair used to execute death row inmates.

I can get in a coffin and ride right the hell out of here.

Of course, there were some obstacles to overcome, the least of which was having to endure riding for God knows how long with a dead body lying beside him.

Bobby actually tested this once, when he was alone with a freshly filled casket and before the hearse arrived. He opened the lid, took a deep breath, and crawled right in. He then closed the lid, not all the way of course because he was terrified he’d lock himself in.

The good news was he fit.

Yeah, it was creepy as hell, but any fear he had of riding with a dead body for awhile was outweighed by the thought of glorious, mind-blowing freedom.

After lying in his cell night after night, going over the details in his mind, a plan was hatched. Clearly though, he’d need help.

Henry Cartwright was the old man for whom Bobby worked in the morgue, and he was not only a lifer but a snitch. If Old Man Henry got a whiff of the plan it would over before it started.

Bobby did have a friend inside he could trust, however. That man was Benny Bajolière, a dude from Bobby’s hometown of McNary, a little town of 215 people smack-dab in the middle of Louisiana and known primarily for its Lecompte Pie Festival.

Benny worked in the prison library and brought books around to the cells, so Bobby and he always had a few minutes a couple times a week to talk and catch up. Benny was a little older and smoked like a chimney, so between the squeaky wheels and Benny’s hacking cough you could always hear him and his book cart coming.

Benny also had connections within the prison walls and could get Bobby just about anything he wanted, from cigarettes to hooch. Bobby loved the Pruno, a sort of prison wine that would make you forget, if only for a little while, that you were in the most dangerous prison in the United States.

But here was the best part about Benny – he was set for release in a two months.

Over the course of their next few visits, the details were worked out. On the first Friday after Benny’s release date, Bobby would crawl inside the last casket of the day to leave Louisiana State Penitentiary. Benny would be waiting outside, follow the hearse, and after everyone left the burial site he would wait until dark and dig up his friend.

A month before Benny was to be released he was to be transferred to a halfway house, where he would ostensibly be prepared to ease back into society. After that he’d be officially released, and the first Friday thereafter he’d aid Bobby in his escape from the hell that was the Alcatraz of the South.

So, with that Benny Bajolière became Bobby Fallow’s lifeline. All Bobby could hope for was that Mr. Bajolière made good on his end of the deal.

Needless to say Bobby Fallow watched the calendar like a hawk. He knew Benny’s release date was approaching, and he waited patiently to put his plan into action.

On the Friday following Benny’s release date, Bobby prepared for his escape. After finishing his shift in the morgue at 3:00 pm, he went back to his open cell and sat nervously awaiting his move. About three hours later and after putting a previously prepared dummy under his bed sheets, he left his cell and walked down to the morgue. Using a morgue key he’d stolen earlier, he entered.

The place was without windows and was as dark as night, but he’d brought a book of matches to light the way. He found the last coffin in a row of four, knowing it would be the last one leaving, around 6:30 pm. Grabbing the lid handle and blowing out the match, he climbed in.

He’d timed it perfectly. After less than a half hour of lying next to a cold corpse, he felt the coffin being lifted and slid into the back of a hearse. After what seemed like hours but was in reality less than a half hour, Bobby could feel the coffin being removed from the hearse and lowered into the ground.

And then, the terrifying sound of dirt being shoveled onto the casket. After perhaps 20-minutes, it stopped.

Bobby Fallow was now buried alive.

Fighting the urge to scream and attempt to fight his way out, he took short, measured breaths as to conserve as much oxygen as possible. It was hot, cramped and pitch black.

Although Bobby tried his damndest not to think about the dead man lying next to him, it was a nearly impossible task.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, he prayed. He prayed that Benny would be true to his word, and more importantly be on time.

After all, Bobby had calculated there would be enough oxygen in a closed coffin to last about five hours.

All he could do was wait.

And so he waited.

And waited.

How long had it been? Three, four hours? It seemed like an eternity. And then, a revelation – Bobby had a pocket watch. He just had to see how much time he’d been down there, under the ground.

With much difficulty he slid his hand down and gently pulled the watch from his pocket. He pulled it up near his face, but of course could see nothing but the inky blackness he’d been looking at for the past few hours.

For a few minutes he listened, hoping to hear the faint rustle of Benny digging his way down to rescue him. Oh, how they’d laugh and tell the story later, how Bobby was in such a panic-stricken state until Benny showed up as promised.

Alas, nothing. It was as still as death.

It was then Bobby remembered the matches. He reached down again, this time into his shirt pocket. He knew he couldn’t have a lit match in a closed casket very long because he was low on oxygen, but he just had to see the time. He just had to, as a form of reassurance as much as anything. Hell, he probably hadn’t been down there nearly as long as he thought he had.

Everything was going to be OK.

Still, to be certain he had to take one quick look.

He lit the match and took a quick glance at his watch.

Only 8:30.

He’d only been in the coffin for two hours. Just two measly hours. There was plenty of time, and help was most certainly on the way.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he started to blow out the match. But then, something compelled him to look to his side, into the face of the dead man beside him.

And there, staring back, was the face of Benny Bajolière.

Cute but deadly.

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Here’s the story:

Times Union: Alien hunters have recently pointed out what appears to be a snake on Mars, claiming the reptile is capable of surviving the Red Planet’s harsh environment. The snake-like rock formation is one of hundreds of “discoveries” made every year by UFO enthusiasts. This time, however, the sighting of a snake has raised questions for conspiracy theorists concerned over the authenticity of NASA’s Mars rover operations. 

snakeonmars

Rock formation schmock formation. That’s a snake, man. Just crawling around on Mars like a boss. And honestly, name something more scary than a race of Super Snakes getting ready to rain down snakey hell on the citizens of earth? You can’t.

Have a nice day.

PS: Wait until Trump gets hold of this information. Mars is about to get the living hell bombed out of it.

Funny stuff.

hillary

Good Lord.

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Ever heard of the Antikythera Mechanism? No? Prepare to be amazed.antikythera-mechanism

Noted physicist Richard Feynman wrote in 1976 that the Antikythera Mechanism was “so entirely different and strange that it is nearly impossible to describe. It is some kind of machine with gear trains, very much like the inside of a modern wind-up alarm clock.

The Antikythera Mechanism was found on a sunken ship in the Aegean Sea between mainland Greece and Crete. The ship was assumed to be Roman and, when it sank just off the coast of the island in the middle of the 1st century BC, it carried a large number of artifacts dating back to as early as the 4th century BC.

In 1900, Greek sponge divers found the shipwreck, which was submerged in nearly 150 feet of water.

The bronze-and-wood object, later named Antikythera Mechanism, was found with a shipload of marble, coins, glassware, and pottery. Since all the other artifacts were more apparently worthy of conservation, the mechanism was largely ignored until 1951. After  two decades of study, the first publication on the Antikythera Mechanism was made in 1974 by physicist and historian Derek de Solla Price. Price’s work was unfinished when he died in 1983, having never figured out how the device actually worked.

However, scientists are pretty sure about this – the Antikythera Mechanism was designed to calculate dates and predict astronomical phenomena, so it was theoretically the earliest analog computer. Remember that it was made sometime in 4-million BC.

Here is the incredible description of the Antikythera Mechanism:

Reproduction of the original.

Reproduction of the original.

Consisting of at least 30 bronze gears in a wooden container that was only the size of a shoebox, the highly advanced clockwork mechanism was thousands of years ahead of its time. By turning a hand-crank, the user could move forward or backward in time. The crank made the gears move and rotate a series of dials and rings on which there are inscriptions and annotations of Greek zodiac signs and Egyptian calendar days. The mechanism tracked the lunar calendar, predicted eclipses, and charted the position and phase of the Moon. It also tracked the seasons and ancient festivals like the Olympics. The calendar is based on the time from one full moon to the next, and a special dial allowed the user to also envision the seasons, which would have been useful for agriculture. Since the ancient Babylonians figured out the cycle of eclipses, the inventor of the Antikythera Mechanism included two dials that rotate to show both lunar and solar eclipses. But the most sophisticated thing the mechanism did was lunar calculations—it could figure out the Moon’s period at a given time and model its elliptical orbit.

Bottom line, whoever built this contraption was a freaking genius.

The amazing thing is, it seems that the knowledge to build such a mechanism was lost through time, perhaps because it was a specialty device or too expensive to create. Similar astronomical clocks didn’t reappear in Europe until the 14th century.

And oh, one more thing – planetary motion in the mechanism was accurate to within 1 degree in 500-years.

Amazing.

And while many (but not all) of its functions have been figured out, how and where it was used are still unknown. ‘Tis a mystery for the ages. Somebody, though, was way ahead of their time. Way, way ahead.

Because why not?

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Red.

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Legendary Performance.

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All she wanted was a romantic video, and then . . .

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Image  —  Posted: September 20, 2016 in Humor, Kids, Tweet of the Day, Tweets
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