Ammo Grrrll finds “DATING” REDEFINED (and a few other thoughts). She writes:
For God-knows-what reason, my In-Box, with a very clear woman’s name in the email address, is often plagued with several offers for me to “date” women from foreign countries. I guess they can’t legally say “boink” even if Sister Mary Algorithm would let them through. I surmise that solicitation for prostitution is still technically “illegal.” But it’s probably just a matter of time, like with academic support for “Minor Attracted Persons.” So, “dating” it is.
The usual suspects on offer are “hot” women from the Ukraine, Russia, and, lately, Colombia. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that by “hot” they do not mean recently menopausal. Sorry, I AM a woman, and that’s the first thing that comes to MY mind when you say “hot”: standing in front of the fridge with the door open, trying not to pass out. Good times, good times.
About 20 years ago, there was a major mess-up in my one and only foray into an experiment with Yellow Pages Advertising for my comedy business. My ad for “adult comedy entertainment” got put in the “Adult Entertainment” Section with the hookers, strippers and so forth. What I meant by “adult comedy” was that it required the sensibilities of a grown-up, not that it was “dirty” in any way. I was not about to try to entertain at a Bar Mitzvah party (even though the celebrant might technically now be “a man”) as the 13-year-old boys were simply too young to “get” the jokes.
But “adult” is just another word the Left has stolen from us. It used to mean “responsible,” or “for grownups,” like Rush’s “adult beverages.” But it has basically been re-defined as “seamy, dirty, and overtly sexual,” (See, Adult bookstores). Like “gay,” “hate speech,” “gender,” and “oppressed,” the list of pilfered or ruined words goes on and on. Plus new words like “intersectional” and “cis-gender” are being made up all the time.
Anyway, that misplacement in the Yellow Pages caused me many a sleepless night as a legion of pathetic men phoned me after striking out at “last call” in the bars, to engage my “services” without the slightest note of embarrassment. It was quite the eye-opener for me.
Often it involved a heavily accented foreign man, with astonishing messages on my primitive answering machine. “My name is Mohammed. I am married, so when you call back be discreet.” “Oh, I’ll get right on that, Mo.” The temptation to call the number, ask for his wife, and play his message was great, but I’m not that heartless.
Sometimes there would be a Mexican guy in town to work, staying in a motel. He would give me his room number on the machine and inquire about prices. And I always dreamed of going to the motel room the lonely roofer had provided, standup mic, amp, and Sig Sauer in hand, setting it up and doing my 40-minute corporate act to an astonished and severely-disappointed gentleman and then handing him a “bill” for my corporate rate — several thousand dollars. A girl can dream.
And likewise if it didn’t mean my computer would be hacked, my bank account cleaned out, and my email address sold to every perv and criminal in the world, I would also love to respond to the daily invitations to “date” ladies from The Ukraine. By which I mean an actual date, as it was defined the last time I HAD a date, which was sometime in 1966.
“Yo, Svetlana, my name is Kevin and I am in 10th grade. I play football on the JV team (NOT ISIS! Haha!), and enjoy gaming and science fiction. I notice from the picture your – father? Uncle? – sent me that you seem nice, if somewhat chilly, in that outfit. And very friendly. Would you like to go to the Homecoming Dance with me and then get a burger and fries at Osterberg’s Café on Broadway? Please respond by Friday as the dance is Saturday.”
Do teenagers still date? I wonder how young people can even afford to date these days? I didn’t date much in high school – not for lack of interest in it so much as teenage boys’ pointed lack of interest in ME – but a coed grouplet of us undated pals would sometimes go out in somebody’s father’s car and we would all chip in coins to purchase gas. That’s right, kids, COINS. Gas prices in my yute ranged from nineteen cents to a quarter a gallon, an attendant checked the oil, pumped the gas for you, and washed your windshield! (To be fair, your father’s aircraft-carrier sized vehicle probably got about 12 mpg…so there’s that.)
Now before our wretched President drained the Strategic Petroleum Reserve to lower the price of gas before the midterms, the price was $5.00-$6.00 a gallon here in Arizona, and nearly double that in some uninhabitable states like California.
Biden’s looting of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve – either one of the words surrounding “Petroleum” should have been a clue that it’s for an unforeseen EMERGENCY only – reminds me of my own failures in regard to my putative Winter Emergency Kit, back in the day. Now that I’m in Arizona, of course, what we mostly need for emergencies like a flat tire in August is an umbrella, a sunhat and sunscreen, and a few gallons of water, maybe an inflatable kiddie wading pool.
But for the decades I lived in Minnesota, every winter I would faithfully make a kit for winter driving which I kept in the trunk. The large duffel bag contained a handwarmer, a sleeping bag, mittens, matches and kindling, Gatorade and several – okay, MANY – varieties of candy bars and granola bars. Also an empty ice cream bucket and roll of toilet paper.
All well and good until, on a trip when my parents were still alive, between Alexandria and our home in Maplewood, I felt hungry and remembered that there were Peanut M&Ms and Cadbury Easter Eggs in a large baggie in the Kit. Sounds like an emergency to me!
And might as well wash it down with the Gatorade, too. Nice and cool in the trunk in November. And then I had to replace everything. This became a regular pattern: I lived in fear that some awful day I would have an emergency before I could restock.
Sadly, even if I had gotten buried in a ditch in a blizzard, there was little danger of my starving to death before someone found me, what with my carefully maintained robust BMI and all. And the fact that I mostly traveled on Interstate Highways or surface streets. I would probably have barely laid out my Trail Mix and Snicker Bars, and tucked my napkin into my t-shirt before some busybody neighborly rural Minnesotan in a Silverado towed me out!
Compare that to the danger of any number of emergencies – from natural to military – where an empty Strategic Petroleum Reserve could spell total disaster for millions.
But not as big a disaster as the Democrats losing an election and their unfettered access to the bottomless government checkbook and currency printing machine, plus a world of grift, graft and influence peddling. Oh. Em. Gee, you guys. SOME of these lying, loafing lardbutts would have to get JOBS. (Or just retire on their $44 Million, say, like Liz Cheney.) Oh, the humanity! But, then, what about the Georgetown cocktail parties? Nobody invites a nobody, even one with $44 million dollars.
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