Swiped from iOwnTheWorld.com

The Daily Beast published a ranked list of the states with the worst drivers, based upon the number of fatal accidents, taking into account the number of drivers’ licenses issued in the state and the distance of the typical commute.

Based on my experience, I would have chosen Ohio and New York to have the worst drivers, but I would have been wrong.

By the way, New York was number 34 and New Jersey was number 37 on the list. (I figure New York drivers don’t get to drive fast enough often enough to cause that many fatal accidents. They are just a general menace on the roads.)

The state with the worst drivers surprised me.

Thanks to reader Dick for the link.

Yesterday I posted the video of the Royal Navy Field Gun Competition. Check it out. Pretty amazing stuff. Our friend Carl stated in a comment to the post, “A man was killed doing this back in 1982. The competition ended in 1999 due to government spending cutbacks, but seems to be restarted this year.”

He provided the link to the following video, which shows the Royal Navy Portsmouth Team training for the competition. This video provides even a better look of what this event involves and has convinced me that these lads are crazy it takes a very special person to decide to take up this sport.

I’m surprised only one person has been killed doing this.

Ya gotta love the Brits.

Via C&S

At the outset, let me say that I am not a stranger to supermarkets. Over the years, I have probably spent more time in supermarkets than most men. Now, following retirement and making the House by the Parkway (South) the default residence, the division of labor has worked out such that I do most of the supermarket shopping.

I have a few observations I thought I’d share:

Today’s Subject: Shopping Efficiency — Men and Women

Of course, there are numerous exceptions, but I think it’s fair to say that when women shop alone, they are good at, most likely having done it for years. I have noticed that when men shop alone, they are also pretty good at it and quite efficient, except for an occasional lapse of douchebaggery where you see a man on the cell phone calling home for instructions. “They don’t have the 16-ounch cans. Would two 8-ounce cans be OK?” Most men don’t have to make such calls, but, alas, some still do. Despite the occasional Call-for-Instructions Guy, I think it’s fair to say that when shopping alone, men are pretty efficient.

The problems arise when men and women shop together. Efficiency goes right out the window.

The shopping-together phenomenon takes two forms.

The Puppy Dog, Bored, Hopelessly Lost Looking Husband

I’m sure you’ve seen these couples. The man walks several steps behind the woman and contributes absolutely nothing toward the goal of buying supermarket stuff. He often looks bored to death, or confused by it all. You have to wonder why he came along in the first place. I never get the impression that the woman asked him to accompany her, or, for that matter, even wants him there. He’s nothing but a drag on the process, destroying the efficiency of the operation.

The “Expert” Shopping Nazi

I see this type of chooch a lot in the supermarket near the House by the Parkway (South), where there are an abundance of retired people. This is typically a guy who, before retiring, left the supermarket shopping to his wife. Now that he’s retired, he’s decided that, for all those years, his wife didn’t know how to shop for groceries.

So, he accompanies his wife to the supermarket, where he demonstrates his instant expertise on everything having to do with grocery shopping. Every single purchase involves a conference, which sounds more like a lecture from the Expert Shopping Nazi to the hapless woman who obviously has been doing everything wrong for the past three decades. “Why are you buying that? We don’t need it, and this one over here is two cents cheaper.”

I would like to see one of these women whack her imperious, Shopping Nazi husband in the kisser with bag of onions.

We decided that we needed the services of a dry cleaner/tailor in the neighborhood of the House by the Parkway (South).

At the House by the Parkway (North), we have used the same dry cleaner/tailor for decades. The shop was located in a rather unattractive corner store and was presided over by a great guy (We’ll call him “Tom”), who wore T shirts and jeans (shorts in the summer). The store itself was pretty well always cluttered with piles of dry cleaning waiting to be tossed into the machine, and the “guts” of the operation was open for all to see. Tom was an engaging, boisterous guy in a Jersey way. Definitely a beer guy.

Several times in the past, I had brought in new shorts in order to have them shortened. This is necessary, because in terms of body/leg length ratio, I am more akin to an ape.

Anyway, I would bring in a pair that Tom had previously altered, and he would measure the inseams (He had to measure both inseams, as one of my legs is slightly shorter than the other – an off-kilter ape, I suppose – so you’re farookin’ perfect now?), and scratch down the measurements by hand on a cleaning ticket. I would get the original (usually, but if not, no big deal) and, other than some jovial back and forth Jersey ball bustin’, that was it.

Simple.

Yesterday I went to a dry cleaner/tailor in the neighborhood of the House by the Parkway (South). The proprietor was a well dressed (business casual), young (twenty-something?) Asian fellow, and gave us a big smile and welcoming bow. The store was spotless and completely free of clutter. In fact, the only sign that it was a dry cleaner/tailor was a sewing machine and lots of spools of thread tucked away in the corner of the store. The “guts” of the place was behind a wall, and there was a closed, windowed door behind the counter, behind which was obviously the conveyer that holds the finished work. I presume the guy opens the door and rotates the conveyer until the customer’s clothes makes it to the door to the front of the store. Verrrrrrrr tidy, but I never minded looking at other peeps’ clothes on the conveyer at Tom’s place.

Anyway, I put two new pairs of shorts on his counter along with the pair that had been previously altered by Tom up North. I explained what I wanted, and he got it, except that he wanted to hold on to the “sample” or “samper,” as he pronounced it. I presume that someone other than he operated the sewing machine, which is why.I had to leave me well worn shorts with him.

Then the real craziness ensued.

Remember, Tom up North handled everything with a pen and little pad of cleaning tickets. Here, the very nice fellow required name, address, phone number and how we heard of his store. All of this information was being entered, real time, in what must be a fancy schmancy database/dry cleaning/tailoring program.

He would do about a hundred keystrokes, then a dozen taps on the touch-sensitive screen. Stroke, stroke, stroke ….. Tap, tap, tap, tap…..Stroke, stroke, stroke. He must have spent two minutes key stroking and screen tapping.

All this for two pairs of shorts?

After all that, he asked, “When would you like to pick up?”

I replied, “No rush. I have other shorts.” I didn’t want to trigger another blaze of key stroking and screen tapping.

He said, with command authority,“One week.”

“OK,” I said, wondering what would have happened if I had told him I needed the shorts the next day.

Back to key stroking and screen tapping. Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke…..tap, tap, tap, tap…….stroke, stroke, stroke…….tap, tap, tap.

At the end of it all, his printer spit out a bar coded ticket that looked more like a lottery ticket than the anything else. It contained all my information, with possible exception of my blood type.

He then gave us another bow and told us how grateful he was that we came to his establishment.

I am not a Luddite, but I could not help but wonder whether I would be able to get my altered shorts if the guy’s computers crashed. Up North, a computer crash would not be a problem, although a pen and paper crash could be trouble.

Yeah, I’m an old fartster, and I don’t mean to imply that one way of doing business is better than the next. They’re just different is all. Either way, I figure I’ll get my altered shorts some time before next summer, and that’s really all I care about.

Just got a Blue Screen of Death. I think I’ll run a virus scan and call it a night.

Hey! Careful there! You almost stepped on me!

I’m glad I didn’t. No one wants to step on a big, brown, steaming pile of shit.

What’s with the “brown” thing? Are you some kind of racist?

I’m not a racist; I’m a Democrat.

Wow! So am I!

Cool. Are you registered to vote?

I can’t register. Like you said – I’m a pile of steaming shit.

I can make that happen. Do you have any steaming pile of shit friends?

Absolutely. They’re all over the sidewalk and street.

I’ll have someone from ACORN hook you all up in time for the November election.

Sweet.

I had something in mind to write today, but Life 101 kicked in, and now I’m too tired.

Maybe tomorrow, Peeps.