History of the World-The Great Xerxes the Great Sequel

 Okay, I know I wrote "Xerxes the Swell" last post, but I thought this title was better.  Sue me. 

NOTE:  The following contains a lot of Persian and Greek words.  Most of which I didn’t make up.  Since they're all Greek to me.

NOTE II:  The following is true.  Mostly.  For example, I don’t think the Persians used “titty-twisters.”  I think they actually preferred “Indian Burns.”

  

Not to be confused with George Burns.
Yes, this is silly.  You're surprised?  New here?

NOTE:  I'll continue to post this disclaimer.  The past several posts and who-knows-how-many-posts to-come are what I can remember from Our Lady of Barnum Avenue and History Class at Stratford High School while growing up older in Connecticut.  I will research some specifics, mostly dates and the most obscure of names, and I'll try to place historical events in their proper historical context.  Meaning, I won't have the Aztecs land on the moon.  Or...did they?  Trust me, some of this is true (for example, the names and general gist of what happened); however, don't use any of this nonsense to prepare for the History Advanced Placement Examination.  If you do, the only college you'll get into is Klown Kollege and you'll probably be confused for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.  Or Joe Biden.  Especially if you sniff their hair. 

  When last we met.....which was a few weeks ago.  Sorry.  Been busy....

    Darius the Great named his son, Xerxes, as his successor.  This was mostly because Xerxes was the son of the daughter of Cyrus the Great, Atossa the Great in Bed.  And because he threw paper when his older brother, Artobazan, threw rock. 

    Then, having finished construction of his tomb at Naqsh-e-Rostam, Darius made ready to invade Egypt.  As if the Egyptians weren’t icky enough with all that incest stuff, he was totally hacked off because their pyramids were much bigger than his ziggurats.  Apparently size mattered, even in the ancient world.

"Incest.  Not so bad if you keep it in the family."

    But, wouldn’t you know it, Darius died before the Susa AAA Office could finalize his Trip-Tiks and his reservation for a non-smoking room at the Saqqara Days Inn could be confirmed.

"Good thing he had that tomb built, amirite?"

    Almost immediately (by “almost immediately,” I mean “a year”), Xerxes the Great (“the Great” being passed down to him in the will) put down the revolts in Egypt.  And, for good measure, he decided to jump ugly with the Babylonians.  If only because he didn’t really trust the Husseins of Tikrit.

    In 484 B.C. (i.e., “Before Cable”), he outraged the Babylonians when he melted down the statue of “Marduk” (luckily the statue of “Marmaduke” was spared).  Either that or he farted on it.  The Greek historian, Herodotus, is unclear on this matter.  He may have been drunk.

    Outraged by this sacrilege, the people revolted in 484 B.C. and again in 482 B.C., when they remembered they were still pissed off.  However, Xerxes was able to put the Babylonian insurrection down, despite a strong opposition effort led by General Ubaratu Trump-Tammuz and his "MBGA (Make Babylon Great Again) movement.

    Because of this, Xerxes rejected his father’s title, King of Babylon.  Instead, he named himself “King of Persia,” “Great King,” “King of Kings,” “Sky King,” “King Creole,” “King Kong,” “Don King,” “Chicken a la King,” and “King of Nations.”

Unfortunately, he had to stop using 'King of Kings' after
Jeffrey Hunter filed a suit for copyright infringement.

     Wow, the cranky little dude really was full of himself, huh?

"Just look at all these damn piercings! 
You'd be cranky, too!"

    Meanwhile, as if there wasn’t enough on his plate, Xerxes took on the task started by his father:  punishing the Greeks for their interference with the Ionian Revolt (I don’t feel like looking it up, but it probably involved Ionians), the burning of Sardis, their victory at Marathon (yep, that’s where the long ass race came from.  Only without Kenyans), and for effing up his order of baklava.

And spraying Windex on the windshield of his chariot.

    From 483 B.C. onward, Xerxes prepared his expedition.  A channel was dug through the isthmus (NOTE: fancy word for “small strip of land between two bodies of water.”  Rhymes with “Christmas.”  Which hadn't been invented yet) of the peninsula of Mt. Athos, provisions (including granola, paraffin-coated matches, and sewing kits) were stored in the stations on the road through Thrace, and two pontoon bridges (known as “Xerxes Pontoon Bridges,” totally pissing off their designer, Leonard the Meek) were built across the Hellespont (which I sincerely hope was water).

    Soldiers of many nationalities made up the Persian army: Assyrians (getting their “freak” on), Phoenicians (who brought the alphabet and potato salad), Babylonians (who finally forgave Xerxes for that farting thing), Egyptians (who were so bored they started mummifying cats), and Jews (legal counsel to the Great King in all  matters pertaining to invasion).

     Setting out from Persepolis (after having to turn back because the damn Assyrians left the water running), Xerxes’ decided it would be quicker to go by way of the Hellespont.  But, only if there was a nice clean gas station along the way.

To shut the Phoenicians up.  They were such prissy Marys.

    Resisting the urge to fire back, “Yeah, as if YOU people ever wash your hands,” Xerxes grudgingly agreed.

    After all, they did bring the potato salad.

    The journey was an arduous affair, made even more so when they had to detour around construction of the “Death to America” monument and the fact that nobody remembered to bring the horses.

    Having grown weary of the many indignities suffered by his people at the hands of the Greeks, Xerxes prepared to invade the land of Zorba.  As if defeat at Marathon wasn’t bad enough, the Persians had gotten sick and tired of all that bouzouki music playing till all hours of the night.

  NOTE:  I realize “bouzoukis” are relatively modern musical instruments.  The ancient Greeks were actually content with simple stringed instruments and pulling on goat testicles when bursting into “100 Amphorae of Wine on the Wall.”  Besides, “bouzouki” sounds funnier than “lute.”

"Not invented yet?  DAFUQ? 
Where's my Windex?"

    Finally reaching the Hellespont, the strait of water which separated Asia from Europe (and crazy people from other crazy people), nobody remembered where they parked the pontoon bridges left the previous year.  

    Unfortunately, by the time they found them, a fierce storm (taking Chief Meteorologist Chip “Hurricane” Achaemenes completely by surprise) destroyed the only way to Thrace (NOTE:  this is in Greece.  I looked it up).

    In a fit of rage, Xerxes ordered the Hellespont whipped 300 times and had fetters thrown in the water.  Even though Ahmed Fetters swore he had nothing to do with the storm.

Oh, will you look at the time?  This thing has started to take on epic proportions so I think I'll close out for now.  I think I've tortured you enough.  Besides, I gotta pee.

Inside this time.

In a couple weeks (or so)..."The Great Xerxes the Great Sequel to the Sequel"...

History of the World-Xerxes the Swell

      As some of you know, I’m in the middle of writing a book.  Sure to be as big a commercial success as my others, I need to get Tony the Pony finished in time to be ignored by the Christmas Shopping public.

     After all, who do you think I am?  Robyn Engel?  Now there’s a talent.

     What all this means (thanks for asking) is that I don’t have a huge amount of time right now to devote to my blog.  After all, I may make a couple bucks in royalties from the book.  Whereas, Blogger doesn’t give me bumpkis.

     What this all really means is that I’m going to put forward what may seem familiar to some of you.  On the other hand, it may not.  Which begs the question, do you just come here for the pictures?  That’s actually okay.  It’s what I would do if I were you.

     So, without further adieu (French for “screwing around”) I present the following story about who is arguably one of ancient Persia’s greatest leaders, Xerxes the Swell. 

********

  

Historical Xerxes

  

Sexy Xerxes in Chains

    Sure to be a future Easter classic, I just watched 300 on TNT.  It's the true (although, I doubt there were mutant rhinos there) story of 300 (that's where they get the title...duh) Spartans lead by King Leonidas against the evil Persians of...uh...Persia.

    You know, those crazy cats better known as Iranians.

    For almost two hours, the brave Spartans used sword, spear, and washboard abs against the best the Persians could fling at them.  It’s only after the treachery of some guy who would make Rob Reiner look attractive that the Greeks are defeated.

Mostly abs

    After I got over my initial disappointment that there was no nudity in this “Modified For TV” feature, I grew curious about Leonidas’ opponent, Xerxes.

     NOTE:  The theatrical, or HBO version (is it on HBO?  Don’t know) has plenty of nudity.  Including several shots of Lena Heady.  You may know her as “Cersei” from Game of Thrones.  She ain’t banging her brother here, though.

"Eff."

"Hey, don't sweat it. 
Have you seen Gerard Butler? 
Woof."

"Much obliged."

    Was he the most powerful individual in antiquity?  Did he hold sway over all the world, except for China, the Mafia, South America, the Eskimos, New Jersey, the Super Friends, George Soros, Batman, and your mom?  

Or did he show an inordinate interest in Leonidas' loincloth?

 

"Not that there's anything wrong with that."

    Since I’d been disappointed in Hollywood before (I really thought a man-and monkeys-could fly), I decided to do some digging.  Figuring a source which gave us dogs saying “I love you” and dancing babies couldn’t steer me wrong, I consulted the Internet.

    Xerxes the Great was born in 519 BC to Atossa and Darius the Great.  Both of his parents were descended from Achaemenes, but of different Achaemenid lines.  The source documents were pretty clear on that as they wanted to leave no doubt there was no incest hanky-panky going on (despite Lena Heady’s appearance). 

After all, they weren’t Egyptians.  If those people wanted kids with feet growing out of their foreheads, that was their business.  But, the Persians played it on the up and up.

"Nothing to see here. 
Move along. 
Smart-ass Persian."

    Anyway, Darius knew marrying a daughter of Cyrus the Great would certainly help his plan for kingship.  Plus, it would grease his application to the Nineveh Country Club.

    NOTE:  Apparently, the suffix “the Great” was a pretty big thing in ancient Persia.  Which was why Darius’ brother, Herschel the So-So, was never taken seriously.

Not Herschel
For entertainment purposes only.

    Anyway, Darius was all pissed at off at everyone, from Babylon to that guy who sold him those Kinoki foot pads.  But, he was most hacked off at the Greeks.  Who, besides having grass and a recipe for some kick-ass souvlaki, had some of the sweetest nude beaches in the Mediterranean. 

So, he made intense preparations to invade...Egypt.

Hey, I didn’t write this stuff.

However, Persian law (wasn’t he the boss?) dictated he name a successor.  I guess this was just in case he got whacked.  Or never wanted to leave Greek beaches.

Before doing so, he contracted with Gambino and Sons building contractors to build him a tomb.  After permits were finally approved once the Zoning Officer found the head of a camel in his bed, construction began at Naqsh-e Rostam (yeah, I’m not going to look it up, either).  

"Hey, nice tomb ya got here. 
Would be a shame if something was ta happen to it."

    

Freed from the stress of planning his final resting spot and picking out window treatments, Darius then named his son, Xerxes, as his successor.

  ********

     Oops, will you look at the time?  I’d better get cracking on writing my book, don’tcha know?  We’ll have to continue our tale of Xerxes another time.

     Until then, go ahead and pre-order Tony the Pony.  Especially for someone you don’t like.

 

Funerals By George

Our stepfather would have been 81 today.  But, to me, he'll always be that young man who nervously confronted his girlfriend's five kids for the first time.  I miss you, Ray, and can't wait to play a forever game of Wiffleball in the Great Beyond.

  

    The following is a repost from...somewhere.  If nothing else, it was printed in I'll Make Christmas.

Available on Amazon, where only the very finest in the written word can be found. 
Also this.

    I’d spent a considerable amount of time deciding whether to even write this.  On first blush, it seems disrespectful.  I mean, how could telling a funny story about my stepfather’s funeral be anything BUT in poor taste?

    The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that our final respects to “Poppy” weren’t contrived or phony.  Rather, they were a sincere goodbye to one of the family and the way I’d wanna go when I…uh…gotta go.

    Ray, or “Poppy” (as he came to be known), came into our lives when we were children.  Our mother, having grown tired of living with a man who resembled Ralph Kramden, acted like Archie Bunker, and possessed the social skills of Fred Flintstone, secured a divorce and somehow managed to convince this relatively young man that living with five kids really wasn’t much worse than a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands.

    So it went through thick, thin, and adolescence until,  after the untimely death of our mother, it was Ray to whom we turned as head of the family.

    Even though he remarried a few years later, he was still the glue which held us together.

    He took us to ballgames, gave us advice, provided an anchor through tough times, and was a father to five kids when he didn’t have to be.  He may have thought onion dip with chips was high cuisine and Howard Stern was Masterpiece Theater, but he was our model for manhood.

    When he succumbed to cancer several years ago, we were overwhelmed with grief at the loss of someone who had guided us into adulthood and sadness that our own children wouldn’t get to know him as we had.

    As funeral preparations went into high gear, we didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on the person we had lost.  Concerned with the how and where (we definitely knew “why”), we began to lose our grip on the “who.”

    During the two-day viewing, my brothers, sister, and I took our proper places in the front row (the only place where being in the “front row” is not a good thing) and paid our respects to all who came to...uh...pay their respects.

    For two hours, we sat quiet as mummies, while mourners shuffled by the open casket.  As they finished, they turned to us, murmuring “I’m sorry,” “He looks so natural,” (one of the stupidest sayings known to man), or some other such platitude before rushing home to watch “Jake and the Fat Man.”

    Needless to say, it was kinda rough.  Enduring the parade of mourners while solemnly staring at someone who looked nowhere near “natural” took its toll.

    The second night was a little different.  Although prepared to be good soldiers throughout the duration, our solemn façades began to break down after the arrival of one of my brother’s old girlfriends.

    I’ve always admired her for showing up.  She didn’t come to see my brother; she came to say goodbye.  This, of course, didn’t stop the smirks from me and my other brothers and sister.  Nor disapproving looks and hushed “tsk tsks” from some of the other, more distant, relatives.

    Through it all, though, we maintained our composure.

    Until another brother’s old girlfriend showed up.  More smirks.  Then, when one of MY old girlfriends arrived, smirks became giggles.

    Giggles became whispered jokes.  And whispered jokes became throwing our voices at the casket when elderly relatives showed up.  This (to us, anyway) was the very best in funeral home comedy.

    As bad as our performances at the “home”, they were nothing compared to the actual funeral.

    Starting off with a service at the Episcopalian Church (what we refer to as “Catholic Light”) we ended up at the biggest cemetery in town.

    A military funeral (because he was in the Marines), the service was very dignified and steeped in an appropriate level of sadness.

    At its conclusion, everyone but the immediate family withdrew to a cold cuts, beer, and coffee fest at the Elks Lodge (something about a funeral makes me crave boiled ham on a little roll).

    My brothers, my sister, our spouses, and I stared quietly at the casket as it sat suspended over the open vault.  Festooned with an untold number of floral garlands, its mute presence reminded us of our loss.

    It was then I felt a little guilty over our hijinks from the night before.

    As we began to move toward our cars, we heard an almost imperceptible “psst!”  Quickly scanning the cemetery, I didn’t see anything or anyone.  Still looking, we heard it again and spotted a head peering around the side of a tree.

    What the-?

    Suddenly, we spotted one of the people we went to high school with, George, as he stepped from behind the tree, a 30-pack of Budweiser in his hand.  “Everybody gone?”  he called.

    When we told him we were the only ones left, he came over to the site and placed the case of beer on the ground.  “Well, here you are.”

    Sensing we had no clue what he was talking about it, he said, “When Ray knew he was going to die, he told me to get a case of beer and go to his gravesite and hide.  Then,” he went on, “when everybody but the kids left, he told me to come on out and let you have a beer on him.”

    Stunned, we stared at George, the beer, and the grave.   

    Nobody said a word for a few minutes.  Then one of us-I don’t remember who-grabbed a can.  The rest of us immediately followed.

    Popping our tops, we raised our cans to Poppy in toast.

    Before we drank, though, my brother said, “Wait!”  Opening  a can, he set it on top of the casket and said, “Well, here you go, cheaper than you can get at Yankee Stadium.”

    With that, we all had a beer to the memory of our father.

    Needless to say, we finished that case and, despite the “These people are nuts” looks from the cemetery workers, stayed until the casket was finally lowered into the ground.

    It may have been a strange way to act at a funeral, but we knew that was the way Poppy would have preferred it.  Why else would he have had the presence of mind to contract the services of “Funerals By George”?

    Epilogue:  At the post-service "Deviled Eggs and Macaroni Salad Fest", we were discussing how we’d like to be remembered when it was our turn to shuffle off this mortal coil.  We all agreed that nobody should be sad; while “have fun with it” sounds morbid, it pretty much sums up our philosophies.

    Then, we “handicapped” who would go next.  After focusing on who had the most hazardous profession, the discussions finally centered on our most serious health problems.  While none of us have any medical issues to speak of, my brother and I DO have high blood pressure.  Since we couldn’t decide who was more likely to die next, we flipped a coin.

    I lost. 

    Wonder if George is in the phone book? 

Closing thoughts:  This happened over thirty years ago.  Since then, my brothers, sister, and I have become what our kids call "The Olds."  Yes, such is life.  I only wonder, and strangely hope, that when it comes time for us to shuffle off this mortal coil, they'll give us a similar send-off.  Although, since George is our age, they'll have to find someone else to bring the beer.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Secret Agent Man

Or is it?

Yesterday, I heard Johnny River's song, "Secret Agent Man."

It always sounded like "Secret Asian Man" to me.

To back up my belief?  I think I found him.

Here We Go Again

    “I just wish Trump would go away.”

    Just like that, I’ve entered the civil war sure to come between Republicans/Conservatives (not always the same thing) who are for The Donald and those, who while not against him necessarily, would rather anyone else run for president in 2024.

    When I sat down to write another Stuff and Nonsense,  I was hoping to dash off another bit of silliness.  It’s really the type of writing I like to do.  Talking about Xerxes the Great and his stepbrother, Herschel the So-So, makes me laugh.  And, hopefully, makes you laugh, as well.  Or send mental health professionals to my home.

"Dad hated Herschel."

    Then I wrote the above in the cesspool known as Twitter.  

    Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather comment on Truth Social.  There I don’t have to worry about couching my words so that I don’t get banned.

"You got that, right, pal.  We'll drop you like third-grade English."

    But, Truth Social is an echo chamber for the most part and there is very little interaction.  So, I wander about the asylum which is Twitter.  The loonies there are much more entertaining.

    Anyway, I commented that Trump was a polarizing figure.  Another Tweeter rebutted that statement by writing that Trump is only polarizing because the media and his enemies have made him so.

   I responded back that it didn’t matter why he was polarizing.  The fact remains is that he is polarizing.  And, if Conservatives like me think that, you have to know that there are many others just who believe the same.

   Therefore, I predict a return to the infighting which marked the primaries of 2016.  I won’t lie and try to convince you I was for Donald Trump.  In fact, he would have been my third or fourth choice to face the Wicked Witch of Chappaqua.

    I wanted Ted Cruz to be president.  However, one of the people I worked for as an Environmental Services Associate told me that Cruz was polarizing in a Grampa Munster kind of way.  Yeah, I could see that.  But, to me, Cruz seemed more stable than the mercurial businessman from New York.

You see it.  I see it. 
Makes me laugh. 
Hey, comedy is comedy, after all.

    Those of us who expressed reluctance about Trump-we even compared him to Mussolini-were savaged by  our friends who considered themselves conservative.  It got kind of nasty.  Luckily, we all eventually pulled together.

From 2016.
Yeah, I sometimes tended to wax hyperbolically.

    When all was said and done, I pulled the lever for Trump in November.  I would have preferred the Libertarian candidate, but he was nuts.

"Sheesh, make one mistake about Aleppo and they never let you live it down. 
By the way, where is Aleppo?"

   As far as Hillary?  Good grief, AYFKM?

Speaking of Hillary...word on the street is that she's launched her minions
to visit a pox on the neurotic and brainless.

   In my estimation, the Trump presidency, while certainly not without its share of hiccups along the way (thank you, Schumer, Pelosi, and their likeminded assassins in the media), was a success.  I wasn’t a big fan of tariffs, but I was happy for the most part.  Especially at the gas pump.

    Even though there were times I winced at the almost-slavish devotion of his worshippers (cult of personality has no place in politics) and his sometimes-clownish antics, I wondered if my reticence about him was ill-placed.

    Then, he lost to the incontinent idiot from Delaware.  From that moment until now, Trump has not shut up.  I also believe his narcissistic bombast cost Republicans the open seats in Georgia and, thus, the Senate.  And you see how well that’s worked out for the American people.

"Here's the deal.  You tell that lyin' dog-faced pony soldier
I know where all the continents are.  Even Wakanda.  
Repeat the line."

    If he decides to throw his hat in the ring again (as I’m sure he will), the news cycle will be full of witch hunts, steals, and personal attacks.

    So, here we go again.  In the run-up to the presidential election of 2024 which, unlike in the past, will be the most important election in U.S. history.  A case could be made that the 1860 election was more earth-shaking, but this one will be monumental.

    In the time between now and then, though, there will be people like me who will wish Trump will just “go away.”  And I cannot possibly be the only one.  Still, I’m sure the infighting will often be intense.

    To my Liberal (a word I do not think an insult) friends, I’ll say this.  Enjoy the show.  We’ll get to you  eventually.  Much like I wanted any other NFC team (except Dallas) to go to the Super Bowl, when it came down to it, I pulled for the Rams. 

    We’ll get the band back together after the Republican convention in 2024.

    For the time-being, I’m looking at the governor of Florida to lead us out of this mess.  To me, he has Trump’s skills without the histrionics.  Maybe someone else will jump to the fray.  We’ll see.

"And I'm not orange.  So there's that."

    In any event, I gotta think the Republican candidate will eviscerate anyone the Democrats will throw up.  Unless far too many people think Socialism and big government are the ways moving forward.  In that case, check please?  I want to get off.

     I guarantee this, though.  People like me will be lambasted if we express even a whiff that we’re not “all in” for Trump.  We’ll be accused of being anti-American and refuse to see what he did for our country.  Yes, he did a lot for our country, but I’d like a return to a society which isn’t seething with theatrics and paranoia.

     I can’t possibly be the only one who thinks that.

"Clearly, and can I be frank, Penwasser, or whatever his name is, has lost his mind because anyone who does not worship at my altar has been co-opted by fake news because how could anyone think I should just go away as if my hair, the most excellent hair in the world if I can be honest, would allow me to do that and, while we're on the topic, I think Lyin' Ted looks more like Eddie Munster all grown up, I'm just putting it out there."

Next time:  Back to silly.  My head hurts.

The 300 Dollar Stiff

     The Friday we closed on our new house, we decided to celebrate at a local restaurant.  This had nothing to do with the fact that the new place did not have a microwave oven.  Considering that our house was built in 1960, I suppose this should not have come as a surprise.  After all, the first microwaves weren’t widespread until the mid-1980s.  Yes, yes, I know, they were available long before then, but the earlier versions were expensive, and the general public was concerned about stories of leaked radiation. 

"Radiation, schmadiation. 
I got the first one from Sears and I'm right as rain."

    NOTE:  As of this past Tuesday, we now own a microwave oven.

 

Lead-lined apron or exploding testicles?  You can't be too careful.
NOTE:  Family not included.

    Since we thought we’d have a couple beers, we decided to go someplace close so we could walk home if we got carried away.

    NOTE:  We did not get carried away.  After all, I’m 64.  The next one who will carry me away is the undertaker.

    Since there were only four guys at Five Guys that evening, I was worried the breakfast tacos at Plaza Azteca would spit in my burrito (hey, don’t blame me.  Blame Dr. Jill), and I was afraid I’d need a bowl haircut at Moe’s, we chose a sports bar called “AJ Gators.”

In case you didn't get the joke.

   NOTE:  Unlike Five Guys, AJ’s served beer.  Screw those four guys.

    The food was great and the prices were very reasonable, but the highlight of our visit was our server.  She was very personable, attentive, and kept my beer glass filled  was every bit the professional.

    During the course of our meal, we found out she had also bought a new home.  However, unlike us, it was in Pensacola.   Not for nothing, imagine closing on a house via Zoom?

    Sometime this month, she and her husband will relocate to the free state of Florida.

The Escambia County Chamber of Commerce
is hot on her Welcome Wagon packet.
  And looking for a shirt. 

    We’re planning on returning sometime this weekend to say goodbye.  And order some drinks.

    NOTE:  Walking distance.

"Winning!"

    The topic of serving came up during our conversation.  She said that while most people were fantastic (I sincerely hope we fell into that category), some were much less so.

    One of the most memorable consisted of a party of five who ran up a tab of close to $300.  Considering that the price of food there was very reasonable, I was pretty surprised.

    “Good grief,” I said, “what did they order?  Lobster popsicles?”

   Actually no, she said.  While they did have food, it was mostly appetizers.  The bulk of their order was  alcohol.

    Now don’t get me wrong, I like a cocktail (or several) as much as the next guy.  I was a Sailor, ya know.

I did my best to make the Sixth Fleet proud.

    Our server agreed.  She said she liked a drink (or several-see why we liked her?) herself.

    What really set her off is that she wasn’t left a single dime for the tip.  As much as I’m sure she catered to their every need and busted her tail to make their meal a pleasant one, the fact that a gratuity wasn’t left is appalling.

    Most restaurants, including this one, will automatically levy a gratuity for parties eight or larger.  Since there were only five here, the auto tip didn’t kick in.  18% is normal, 20% is easy math, even 15% is relatively acceptable, but nothing?  Awful.

    As a Multi-Venue Consumption Transportation Representative for Uber Eats, I appreciate it whenever a customer tips.  Not only does it help offset skyrocketing fuel costs, it also gives me a sense that what I’m doing is appreciated.  Even more so if they give me cash.

That's disgusting.
Look how dirty those shoes are.

    That’s why I always tip my server or anyone doing a personal service (minds out of the gutter, please).

    Of course, sometimes your dining experience is not a pleasant one.  Obviously, there are servers out there who are rude, inattentive, or downright incompetent.  These people really shouldn’t be rewarded with a gratuity and should look for work elsewhere.
 

   Like in the federal government.

    But, they are in the minority.  Similarly, any problems with your meal may be completely out of your server’s control.  In that case, cut them a little slack.

    Most of the time, though, these folks, may only work for (sometimes below) minimum wage (which is wrong and a topic for another time) and, so, count on tips. 
 

   So, remember that the next time you go out.  The old maxim rings true.  If you can afford to go out to eat, you can afford to tip.

    Good luck to her in Florida, though.  Where the gators won’t necessarily be cartoon gators.

"What?  No tip? 
Why don't you come a little closer and explain why?"

Next time:  I may go with another History of the World installment.  Or not.  You're not the boss of me.

 

Been a While

 

The Kenderosa

Hi all!

    I know it's been a long while, but I have a good explanation.  I'm a procrastinator  I bought a new house.  Well, new to ME, at least.  The thing was built during the Eisenhower Administration.  Meaning, it's still younger than I am.  

"And I'm dead. 
Which begs the question, why TF am I smiling?"

    What that all means is that I have been extremely busy.  Packing, then moving, then UNpacking (which still has not been completed) has taken up quite a bit of my time.  Not to mention that I have to get the old place ready to be placed on the market.  Cleaning, painting, exorcising demons, you know, pretty standard stuff.

    Just so you know, that's was the plan all along.  Basically, I have access to two places.  Even though, only one has all my stuff in it.

    Sometime this weekend, or early next week, I hope to settle down and write a proper post.  Well, as proper as I can make it.

    Mind you, I still won't be unpacked, but at least I have access to my computer and a chair.  So, I have that going for me.

"Which is nice."