We gotta get out of this place.... if it's the last thing we EVER do.....

Blog post #1,835:

They all start the same.  One 8 and 1/2 by 11 wholly white page with nuttin' on it staring at you.  Ideas (scary I know) go thru the brain.  Like 99 ideas, but we don't wanna do the 99 bottles of beer on the wall for that would surely cause folks to turn and run.

So.  I was reading a post.  It was a rather calm post about the fact that not all people drink alcohol "and they don't need to explain why."  Innocent.  Sure. Agree. Then, the person that posted the meme added "And if you go so far as ridiculing them for not being "cool enough", you're a douchebag who drinks to make up for your lack of personality."

OK, then it kinda turned political.  NO, PLEASE VICTOR NO!  Relax, will only take a sec... Anudder added "I drink beer and I don't give a shit whether you do or you don't. If you think people drink because they have no personality it's probably because your (I think actually meaning 'you're', as in you are, but spelled 'your') one of those Tolerant fkn lefty Commiecrats. Go get a stuffed animal to cuddle up with cause I probably Triggered ya."

Well, come to think of it, maybe. Please trust me.  I know things are said by EACH side that could be considered offensive.  I think butt hurt is the going phrase. I'm not a huge fan of pigeonholing either side as if to portray "all them people are alike". So, when I typed that, I find myself doing the same damn thing.

Our world was having a BBQ.  Folks were summoned to grab the briquettes. "I'll grab some twigs".. "I finished today's Wordle, here, we'll put the newspaper on the bottom."  "I brought this can'a lighter fluid, here, lemme spray a bit." "I've got one of those long lighter thingies, here."  POOF.

Before you know it, the yard's on fire.  Then the neighbor's yard.  Then the whole damn street.  Town.  County.  State.  Then, The United States of 'Merica are on fire.

We all be butt hurt.  So.  A blog on butt hurt?

Blog idea. It IS like the old game pong though. Do this (butt hurt), BOUNCE, use some parody (BOUNCE AGAIN), call it (BOUNCE), something like the Days Of Our Lives saying (BOUNCE AGAIN, and again, and again).  Call it (BOUNCE) "Like sliding down the splintered banister of life, so are the days of our lives." (PONG, BOUNCE...    )

Nah.......

Then I started to look up "Butt hurt" (several Google bounces around.) Much to the satisfaction of the Tigger guy, butt hurt, it seems, is a phrase used to pigeonhole Liberal sorts.

Victor.   This craps gotta stop.  You're (pretty sure it's 'you're') gonna offend Repubs and Dems alike.

OK.  BOUNCE.  Howabout a blog on "how in the HELL did we get here?"

You mean, like, use your brain and figure this all out?

Nuh uh.

Use GPS.  Ain't that how we get from A to B?

Back in my day (hehehe) we used book maps.  They became dogeared.   And if ya ain't buying one every six months, there were new streets all over.

GPS solved all.   Please, let's gather and sing a few bars of "We are the World... We are the Children"...

No, dat ain't it.

OK, GPS it is.

One of my first recollections of GPS was driving to attend the wedding celebration of a friend, to be held in a big ole barn, in the middle'a nowhere, somewhere around Raymore, Missouri. I set sail.  Particulars entered in GPS.

I drove. And drove.  And drove.  The 32 minute drive was up to 54 minutes.  Finally, I was on a gravel road.  "Your destination is on the right."  It was a pasture of cows.  Not a barn, a silo or an outbuilding in sight. Nothing but cows. A few turns here and there it was ciphered I was about 20 miles inside the State of Kansas.  Uh huh.

Howinthehell are we gonna Humpty Dumpty our Great Nation back together if THAT'S where GPS takes us to?

Turns out I wasn't alone.

Three Japanese tourists in Australia used GPS to plan a drive to North Stradbroke Island, just off the coast of the eastern city of Brisbane.  GPS failed to account for the 9 miles of water dividing the island from the mainland. Uh huh. Road turned to gravel. Then mud. Then gentle laps of water against the tires.  Soon, they were in the ocean.  Abandoned the car, headed back. A passing ferry (the recommended way to get to the island) saw all. Tow truck driver gave the boys, and the car a ride back to town.  Car totaled, taken to the dump.

My fellow 'Mericans.  GPS is THE way.  The cure all.  Uh huh.  Yep.

Foggy Mountain breakdown.  OK, foggy night.  Man, wife, two kids driving through South Brunswick, NJ.  Came to a T instersection.  Remember, foggy.  GPS said "Go straight", driver did, a hunnerd feet later, bonked a damn house. Two not wearing seatbelts got hurt.  "This stuff really happens" a police spokesman remarked.

Ask not, what your (I think that's 'your' ain't it?) book map can do for you, but what you can do with GPS.

A Swedish couple on 'holiday', that's what they say I guess over there... not vacation.  Anyways, a nice relaxing planned holiday on the golden beaches of Capri, ahhhh yes.  Cept.  Cept, they spelled it Carpi when they entered it into GPS.  Carpi is an industrial city in Italy's Northern region.  Some 400 miles away from Capri. They only discovered their error when they stopped to ask locals how to get to the island's famous "Blue Grotto."

What we've got here is a failure to communicate.

An 80 year old man ignored a series of warning signs and drove his Mercedes Benz into a giant pile of sand near Hamburg.....  37 yr old German truck driver, using GPS to attempt to make a delivery at a Swiss factory, ignored "no entry" warning signs, followed the female GPS voice.......until his truck lodged into a cherry tree.

A hick named Vic (prolly one of those tolerant fkn Lefty Commiecrats) drove 20 miles into Kansas in attempt to reach a barn wedding in Raymore, MISSOURI.

We gotta get outta this place, if it's the last thing we EVER do... We gotta get out of this place, 'Cause girl (and 'Merica) there's a better life for me and you.

BRB.  My butt kinda hurts.  Gonna GPS to the CVS to getme some mercurochrome.

By Henry Gibson.............   Forward by Nancy Pelosi, Mitch McConnell and Tigger.

Love, Victurd