English Has Become Confusing

 

English is getting more and more confusing for me. I simply don't understand the meanings of some of the words and phrases that suddenly and without warning are in common use.  Here are a few that befuddle me: 

HATE CRIME

 

What is a hate crime?  What if I shoot a guy, but don’t hate him? How can you tell, unless I shout out, “I really, really hate you,” just before I pull the trigger?

 

Let’s say he’s of Norwegian extraction and I am not, is hate crime automatic?  What the hell!  Third Norwegian we’ve lost this week!  Form a Congressional Committee!

 

What if I just didn’t like the way he looked at my girlfriend or I’m offended by the car he drives. Norwegians can be so picky!

 

 Maybe he’s Swedish and I killed him by mistake. I was still hating someone enough to shoot him. Can I have a do-over and find a Norwegian without penalty? Is my sentence dependent on ethnicity and which ethnicity?  Says the judge, “The law says if you kill Norwegians I must sentence you to six months in a cold, dark room, but for the Swede, it’s another nine months in a neutral lockup.  You just better be glad you didn’t shoot a Cambodian Catholic!”

 

How is hate determined?  “Well,” says the judge, “you have a long history of hating, beginning with oatmeal as a child, the girl you invited to the prom who didn’t show up, plus the neighbor’s cat. Several people have testified you hated your visit to Oslo.  This is not looking good.”

 

You shoot my ass and I don’t care if you hate me or not, I’m gonna shoot back.  Wait a sec.  When I shoot back, I’ll admit it, I hate you!

 

Which brings us to:

 

OFFENDED

 

Do I have a choice to be offended?  I think so, but I’m offended that you ask.  And what type of situation puts being offended on the no-no list, or the forget it list?  If I choose to be offended how much do I have to be offended to have someone also be offended enough to do something about it?  Is just a little bit enough?  “Your bowtie offends me.  I hate chartreuse.”  Now I see double jeopardy raising it’s offensively shaven head.  I’m both offended and hating at the same time.  Let me amend that:  “I’m only slightly offended and cancel out the hate; chartreuse looks good on your ugly bowtie.”  Ok, let me restate it totally.  “I dislike your bowtie.”  Now it’s your turn to be offended, so let’s call it even, or you can offend me by telling me to shut my mouth and keep the game going.

 

ETHNICITY

 

You are black and I am white.  Well, not exactly.  You don’t look black, you look a darker shade of tan and I’ve been on the beach and I’m tan, too.  We both need to be tested for blackness to settle the issue.  Even when I’m off the beach, I never really look white, maybe lighter tan.  My old granny, stuck at home is the only one I know who even looks pale.  Oh, matter of fact, I’m offended that native Americans used to call my ancestors Pale Face.  I want ceremonial wigwams removed from every national park!  Hey, I don't want to see any carved on stone memorials either!

 

How much black DNA makes me a black?  Are you offended that I ask?  What a slippery slope!  In Nazi Germany, you needed a certain percentage of Jewish blood to qualify for the gas chamber.  In the old days of American slavery, you needed a certain amount of black blood to be black.  Not enough blackness and you didn’t make the cut and got a get off the plantation ‘free card.’  What direction are we headed when we use slavery and Nazism as models?

 

Just wondering.

 

Does skin color count no matter where you were born?  Is Elon Musk an African American?

 

And does your skin color decide your ethnicity?  Filipinos and Chinese are the same ethnicity?  Nigerians and Congolese?  Peruvians and Mexicans?  Does culture matter, or are we just slicing the ethnicity cake with a crowbar and passing out messy shares?

 

ASSAULT RIFLE

 

If I assault someone with a BB rifle, does that count as an assault weapon?  Or does it have to be a certain caliber, holding enough bullets to stand off a pack of starving spotted hyenas?  Which brings us to clips.  All clips? Ten bullets? Twelve?  Thirty-six?  The U.S. Army uses any number of infantry weapons, including shotguns, and sniper rifles that hold fewer rounds in the clip.  

 

Are we talking automatic weapons? Already not allowed.  So many civilian rifles are semi-autos.  You pull the trigger and one bullet comes out of the barrel.  True for any semi-auto rifle, including .22s and pellet guns. No modern army I know of uses all one pull, one shot rifles.  But, automatic weapons are not unknown among street gangs and other villains. 

 

 

Discussions of guns and control of guns I’ve read lately have the depth and veracity that compares to nothing more than whether you put your money on red or black.

 

Use of Words

 

In the use of words, silliness has crept in like leaves on a Kudzu wine.  I read that a male patient at a hospital in Scotland was denied help because he refused to say whether he was pregnant or not.

 

That pretty much says all I need to say about the use of words. Silliness covers it.

 

If you paid attention, you know I offered no solutions, only questions and examples, leading to a simple statement:  I don’t know.  But, I do think modern English is confusing.  

 

By comparison, grammar rules regarding the subjunctive tense are a piece of cake!

 

Dead is Dead by Mort U. Arry

                              

Yes dead is dead unless you want it to be something else, but it will cost you. 

 

 ---Al Most, Attorney at Law, and other stuff

 

Just because a man has been shot and stabbed it don’t mean a crime was committed.  Most likely it was a shaving accident while deer hunting.

 

---Sheriff Tally Hoe

 

The devil works in mysterious ways.  Can I get an Amen and another slice of that peach pie?

 

---The Reverend Sally Forth, Preacher at the Eve Was Right Church of the Garden.

 

The people deserve to know the truth, I guess.  Maybe not.  We’re still discussing it.  And what is the truth, really?

 

---TV talking head Alice Fair, The Mourning Hour

 

AnD sO It BeGaN

 

It was early evening when a figure moved through the shadows of the frigid night, one foot at a time, although he preferred hopping on one leg in time to the music that played loudly in his head that would fit perfectly into a 7 ½ sized hat, if he had been wearing a hat. Instead, he wore an XL black panty hose, with only one eye-hole, a trick he’d learned riding with The Overripe Persimmon Motorcycle Club, when Rocky “Big Eyes” Rhode caught a bumble bee in the eye and needed a flat heat screwdriver to dig it out. Afterwards he was just known as Rocky.

 

But, back to the avenger:  Perhaps he should have cut one leg off the pantyhose to keep from tripping.  He was not a quick learner and still limped from the second and third times.

 

Under his arm was a Salver model 14mQ, loaded with a full clip of 7.66 millimeter, highly polished brass cartridges with steel piercing bullets, made especially for him by the little known Happy As a Fragrant Clown Gun Shop and Ice Cream Parlor in South Philly.  The gun was so accurate he could correct a squirrel’s astigmatism at a hundred yards,  but it was another learning process. A few squirrels mistook headlights for sunrise.  Some of their friends stood on street corners, cups in their tiny claws, waiting for nut donations.

 

The target, Wiber Willright had a titanium plate in his head from a previous attempt on his life.  The first assassin tried to do the job with fossilized deer antlers, mounted on the hood of a black and red 1954 Chevy.  The killer didn’t survive the Chevy blowing a rod that pierced his heart.  With the new assassin there would be no mistakes. He was a professional and knew to keep things simple, mostly.  You find, you kill, you get paid; you spend your money on expensive whiskey and cheap women, or that was the plan.  So far he’d found no cheap women and he took this job because he was also running short of whisky.

 

Willright, lived on Casanova Avenue in a heavily gated community, if you could call one house and sheep farms a community.  The gate was so heavy it took two men and a harnessed donkey to drag it open.  The donkey would rather have been frolicking with a very cute filly in the back forty, but no one had asked him. Sadly, frolicking was still a distant dream.

 

Willwright had not previously had a heart condition, but after the near miss, his heart pounded every time the gate creaked open, or he saw deer antlers, or the donkey brayed.  Nor was he fond of 1954 Chevys.  These days, he mostly sat in his massively fortified home, in front of the TV, on a couch once owned by Roy Roger’s horse, Trigger, doing obscene crossword puzzles, asking himself questions, such as what rhymes with snore and banal pecks?

 

Not short of ideas and possibilities, his assassin reached the gate and paused to change into this boots with the soles sewed on backwards,  so trackers would only know where he’d been, made for him in London in a shop with a sign on the front that said, NO soul resides in this establishment and that means you, you soulless heathen!

 

Using an old trick he’d learned in survival camp, after he’d been lost for several days, he whistled.  Loudly.  The donkey stampeded.  The men’s attention was on the animal that had mistook the whistle for someone calling the frolicking filly.  Raging hormones pulled the gate open by several feet.

 

The assassin saw his chance, managing to slip through and stumble into the bushes unnoticed.

 

He quickly and almost silently cocked his Salver model 14mQ, especially designed with a soundlessly clicking clicker.  It was then he discovered he’d left the 14 bullet clip on his dining room table, along with his see through socks.  

 

Damn, the boots hurt his feet, chaffed his calves, making him say very naughty things. He regretted not paying the extra $600 for the double padded cheetah skin bouncy heels.  Fortunately, he had sprung for the sparking electric laces and internal, automatic athletes foot sprayer.. 

 

With no squirrel piercing ammo, he would have to improvise.  He tapped the side pocket of his French commando, 1959 Rothschild wine and Brie scented pants. Fortunately, he had brought his self guided Lightening Tomahawk; built in a tiny New Mexico pueblo by who else! Tommy Hawk, the noted rifle stock manipulator and gun sight schemer, known for once selling a gun sight to a blind fortune hunter.

 

As he approached the house, two robotic pit bulls growled and ran metallically toward him.  His electric bootlaces quickly shorted their circuits. They barked no longer, but began to moo and mow the lawn.  

 

One window was open.  Unfortunately it was the window to the sixteen car garage.  Then his luck changed.  Willwright appeared at the window near the eight-foot high custom made sixteen pane beveled front door. The killer had seen doors like this, made by Johnny Appleseed’s great grandfather, the apple tree slayer.

 

The quiet avenger threw the hatchet-tomahawk, which went through the window, but bounced off the titanium plate in Willwright’s  head.  Blood streamed down his shirt and he rushed upstairs to change and desperately search for his Ranger Rough Rider flintlock buffalo long rifle, purchased at a cigar store in northern Maine and kept in a locked gun case, inside a locked gun cabinet, in the locked safe room in the basement.  He could only find two keys!  Where the hell had he put the key to the save room?  Then he remembered it was in the Trust and Hope Savings Bank, in a safety deposit box, only available on Tuesday and Thursdays from 9 to 9.15 a.m.  “Well, darn it,” he said.

 

By this time, the avenger had made it through the broken window, using his 4 gauge, stainless steel, handmade window smasher and bottle opener. He quickly retrieved his Tomahawk and began climbing the stairs.

 

Willwright stood on the top step looking, bewitched, bothered and bewildered. This time the Tomahawk found a perfect resting place in Willwright’s chest.  Dang, he thought, as life ebbed; he should have remembered to put on his Kevlar vest when he was changing into a clean shirt.

 

By the time the time delayed house alarm went off and the cops responded, the avenger was long gone. 

 

Sheriff Tally Hoe and his team of detectives saw this for what it was.  Obviously, Mr. Willwright had heard his dogs mooing and gone to an upstairs window to investigate, carrying his high tech hatchet, then had a heart attack and tumbled down the stairs.  The Sheriff reasoned that since Willwright was hunting for a possible intruder, “We’ll call this one a hunting accident.”

 

Alice Fair of The Mourning Hour wanted to know, “What about the broken window?”

 

“No idea.  Windows break all the time.”

 

Al Most, Attorney at Law and stuff, asked if Willwright had an attorney.

 

Nobody knew, but Mr. Most thought he might be able to find a distant cousin and help him settle the estate, or join a profitable business venture, turning used inner-tubes into horse condoms.

 

The Reverend Sally Forth described Willwright’s passing as an act of providence, adding that Willwright never gave a cent to her church, refused to give her another piece of peach pie, and got what he deserved.  After several snifters of medicinal brandy, she dropped to her arthritic knees and recanted, ready to do the Christian thing and forgive all number of sins done by people she didn’t know and had never met, but leaving out several of her parishioners.

 

The avenger?  No one knows for sure, but a man, wearing a size 7 ½ hat and carrying what appeared to be a new, custom made hatchet, stopped at the Come And Get Me Wholesale No Tell Gun Shop to buy several boxes of dark, XL panty hose that were on sale, with no questions asked. Limit four.

* Yes, this is satire, a take off on thrillers.  If you know any of these people, don't tell me.  I don't want to know.*

 

 

Goulash for the Brave of Heart by the Careless Cook

 

Goulash for the Brave of Heart by the Careless Cook

 

Why for the brave of heart? Bare in mind this recipe is only a starting point, a guide.  Don’t have something? Leave it out, or substitute another.  Don’t like this or that, hey, follow your taste buds. You are the master chef and if you like it, that’s the only stamp of approval you need.  Guests have problems with this or that?  What the hell, you’re feeding them a free dinner or lunch!  You’re a chef, not a short order cook!

 

I have had people tell me, we’d love to come to supper. Fred doesn’t like fish or any seafood, is gluten free by choice, and prefers not to have rice.  I’m going fat free and lactose free. Also, both of us are allergic to flowers and anything scented. By the way, we do not approve of alcoholic beverages, and would like to know who you voted for in the last election.

 

Ah, I understand you won’t be coming to dinner. Worry not.  We’ll invite you and Fred over for iced water sometime in the unmentioned future, as soon as we rent the gymnasium, hopefully before you bid adieu to this scented world, but maybe not.

 

Goulash for the Brave of Heart by The Careless Cook

 

Ingredients, more or less

 

A jigger of vegetable oil (I used extra virgin olive oil, a holdover from my teenage years.  These days I would gladly settle for non-virgin olive oil)

1.5 pounds (700 g) of stewed beef, cut into 1 inch cubes

1 large onion, peeled and roughly chopped

2 cloves of garlic, peeled and roughly chopped

3 large red bell peppers, seeded and cut into 1 inch pieces

2 heaping Tablespoons of flour

2 heaping Tablespoons of paprika, or more to taste (I used smoked paprika)

2 heaping Tablespoons of tomato paste

1 can (14 oz) of diced tomatoes

1 cup of beef stock (if you used carton beef stock (you may want to add a cube of dried beef stock to intensify the flavor)

Salt and pepper to taste

 

To serve:  Over brown rice.  Add a scoop of sour cream and pickles.  I used my version of bread and butter pickles. Also add some chopped flat leaf parsley for color…. which I did not add because I didn’t have any.

 

Puttin’ It Together

Heat oven to 250ºF

 

Add the oil to a large pot and heat to medium. Add the onion and garlic and cook until soft. Add the red bell pepper and when they are barely soft add the meat and cook until lightly brown.  Don’t worry about fully cooking the meat.  It will cook in the oven for a long time.

 

Add the paprika and flour.  Stir well.  Add the diced tomatoes and tomato paste. Stir well.

 

Add the cup of beef broth. Stir.

 

Salt and pepper to taste.

 

Cover the pot put it into a 250ºF oven and cook for two and a half to three hours.  Check to see the texture.  If it’s too soupy, remove the top and put the post on the cooktop at medium heat and cook until it’s the consistency you want. Meat should be very tender, almost falling apart.

 

Remove from heat.  Add a spoonful or two of brown rice and spoon the goulash into bowls.  I let my guests add their own dollop of sour cream and pickles.

 

This tastes even better on the second day.  Also a good gift for a neighbor who is under the weather and under fed.  However, do not let the freeloaders fool you by suddenly limping or sneezing, or pretending not to be gluten free.

 

 

 

 

D-Day 6 June 1945

 

D-Day

 

On this date, June 6, 1944, beginning with bombing shortly after midnight, and then at one thirty in the morning, about 160,000 American, United Kingdom, and Canadian troops hit the beaches at Normandy, composed of  five American Divisions, five UK divisions, and one Canadian division, plus various other support troops. And it wasn’t just men, but tanks and trucks and so much more.  A huge operation?  No, it was gigantic, the result of long term planning that began a year earlier in 1943, and postposed several times by weather.

 

The Germans knew the allied forces were coming.  They just didn’t know when or where.  The allies had gone to extreme measures to keep the enemy guessing in the dark.

 

In southern England, General George Patton created a false army, complete with mock aircraft and tanks and flurries of faux messages meant to be intercepted.  You may also have heard of corpses being dressed in allied uniforms, provided with false orders and ‘secret’ documents, then allowed to wash up on beaches where the Germans would find them.  The subterfuge worked its magic, but the Germans were not just sitting and waiting. Guessing, yes, but preparing.

 

They thought the invasion would come at Calais, France only twenty-seven miles from the English port of Dover.   But, still, they provided significant forces and preparations all along the coast, including Normandy.   And if the Germans were fooled about the where, they were not so foolish as to think there were not other possibilities besides Calais. They spent months preparing over 2400 miles of defenses. To give you a comparison, our border with Mexico is 1,933 miles.

 

During the D-Day landings, the allies suffered at least 10,000 casualties, with over 4,000 dead. Our dead lay scattered on the beaches.  And the Germans also paid a steep price, with casualty estimates ranging from 4,000 to 9,000.

 

Nor was victory on the beaches a certainty.  Over 6,900 vessels delivered and protected allied troops in the landing, with over 4,000 being landing ships and landing craft. Even so, the landing stood a good chance of being turned back, defeated. After all, the Normandy area was notorious for vicious, unpredictable tides and weather.  And the weather did its worst, causing troops to land far from planned locations.  Of 29 amphibious tanks, only two made it to shore.

 

But to my mind, statistics are only numbers on paper, disregarding the real terror and frightfulness of war.

 

Here are some quotes from those on the beach.

 

“They’re murdering us here. Lets get inland and get murdered.

--- Colonel Charles D. Canham, 116^th Infantry Regiment Commander on Omaha beach

 

“You get your ass on the beach.  I’ll be there waiting for you and I’ll tell you what to do. There ain’t anything in this plan that is going to go right.”

---Colonel Paul R. Goode, in a pre-attack briefing to the 175^th Infantry Regiment, 29^th Infantry Division. 

 

“I took chances on D-Day that I would never have taken later in the war.”

---First Sergeant C. Carwood Lipton, 506^th Parachute Regiment, 101^st Airborne Division.

 

And from one of our United Kingdom brothers in arms: David Teacher, 71 Royal Air Force Beach Unit.

 

“Jerry (Germans) started to shell the beach at about 9am.  Suddenly, all hell broke loose.

 

The beach was under fire from shells, mortars, and machine guns; we dived for cover.

 

The sea was covered with blood and vomit and flies began to arrive by the thousands, which created another nightmare.

 

We continued all night and into the following day without a break.  Slowly, slowly we overcame all the nightmares…there was no lack of humor.

 

A soldier coming ashore asked, “Is this a private beach? I was promised a private beach. If not, I’m not staying.”  And we heard, “My mother told me not to travel by air. She thought it was much safer by sea.”

 

An Army officer coming ashore and instead of getting his men off the beach quickly, he stopped to consult his map.

 

“Sir, you’ve got to get off the beach now!”

 

“And WHO are you?” he asked.

 

“Sorry, no time for introductions!”

 

Perhaps you don’t realize that less than 4% of World War II veterans are still alive. The history of our wars and the sacrifices suffered by our men and women, on the battlefield and at home is slowly drifting into the dusty past and soon will be only slightly remembered by the younger generation and coming generations.

 

It is so important to keep history alive, not as a series of facts to be learned in school, but to remember the importance of days and nights and sacrifices, not just on D-Day, but on other days and other wars.