German Goiter

There seems to be a real problem in Florida called the “German Goiter”.  This is not the type of goiter that affects the thyroid gland because of a lack of iodine.  Its impact is around the waist line and is caused by the consumption of alcohol, usually in the form of copious amounts of a substance known as “beer”.  The outward results of this affliction are very visible.  In mild cases it causes a bulge around the middle that looks much like a deflated volleyball.  It pokes out but does not cover the belt buckle.  In more serious cases it resembles a half inflated basketball and tends to hang over the belt buckle.  In very serious cases it gives the appearance of someone trying to smuggle a beach ball under his shirt.  In this case the belt buckle is again exposed with equal amounts of the “beach ball” above and below the belt.

There is a companion problem associated with the German Goiter.  This one affects an area just south of the goiter in an area commonly known as the “gluteus maximums”.   This problem gives the appearance of someone again smuggling recreation items.  In this case it looks much like two soccer balls that tend to wobble in opposition to each other.

The exact cause of the smuggled soccer balls is still unclear but it is thought to be associated with the three main food groups; i.e., Pizza, big Macs, and French fries.

I am in the process of further research and will forward my findings as soon as I can get further funding.  I am hoping that I can obtain money from the “cap and trade” programs as well as the “cash for clunkers operation.” I have also made inquiries to the “green energy lobby” about any stray cash that might just be laying around.

Till then.  Dal

Snow White

Now that I am back in Naples for the winter I can forget the many tasks “up north” such as mowing, raking, gardening, and pruning.  I can concentrate instead on such important matters that strike my fancy.  Today I am concerned with Fairy tales and political correctness as a subject that needs copious amounts of attention.  Allow me to elaborate.

Consider the fairy tale about Snow White and the seven Dwarfs.  One would never, today, be allowed to publish such a bigoted and racist story.  How do we know that Snow White was snow white?  There is no proof other than the author’s word and that lacks documentation.  Snow white might even have been a "Lady of the night".  Snow White should be addressed as Ms. White

And the “Seven Dwarfs”!!!  That title today would raise the ire of several groups.  Lawsuits would be filed and many “advocates “of gender (how do we know the group was all male?).  Height deprived people would be up in arms.  The group could be described as “A group of smaller gentlepersons”. Names are also considered labels that are possibly not appreciated by the person so labeled.  Therefore, I suggest the following name changes:

“Doc” should be called “Leader and chief medical person”

“Sneezy” should be referred to as “Allergy inflicted helper”

“Grumpy” should be relabeled as “Joy deprived individual”.

“Dopey”.  We won’t even go there!!!

“Happy” .The name has no negative connotation but he could be called “Positive attitude gentleperson” 

“Sleepy”.  This is a simple one.   He would be named “Insufficient rest group member”.

Danged if I can remember the seventh gentlepersons bigoted name. Oh wait, now I remember.  It is "Bashful".  We could label him simply as "Socially reluctant helper"

Now the job to get this fairy tale updated remains.

Dal Wolf.  Naples and Auburn, In

Lucy and Ethel

The following is a narrative of a situation much like Lucy and Ethel and the cake conveyor that was on TV years ago but remains a classic.

During the seventies when I was working as a manufacturing engineer, I was assigned to work with another engineer on the installation of a new “stator brushing machine”.  I will spare you many of the un-understandable details with the project and just hit the highlights.

First of all the other engineer could only get one machine building company to bid on the new machine.  Others said it couldn’t be done.  Red flag, Red flag!!!!  I was tasked with determining the machine cycles, load and unload time and pieces per hour expected, along with cost data.

The gist of the operation was as follows. 

1. Unload part from machine and load to pre-bake oven conveyor. 
2. Load and process next part on brush machine.
3. Unload  pre-bake oven conveyor and assemble to final bake oven conveyor.

When I compared the machine cycle to the speed of the conveyors I found that the first oven conveyor was cycling faster than the brushing machine and the final bake oven was running slower than the brush machine.  This created an impossible bottleneck at the brushing machine.  Neither of the conveyor speeds could be changed due to the cure time of the materials involved

Needless to say, a meeting was called to resolve the problem.  The boss, (who was a Dilbert’s boss look alike), suggested that I change the time allowed to load and unload the machine and ignore the machine cycle.  The other engineer nodded his head in agreement with the boss.  I sat there with my mouth cycling open and closed  but nothing was coming out .The machine, which cost $200,000 dollars never produced a piece and just sat there like the pile of iron that it was.

I had another project with the same guy a few years later.  This time I took his “projected time” that he and the machine salesman had given me and simply multiplied it by four.  He howled like a scalded dog.  It turned out that I was 10% low with my estimate.  The same boss gave me hell for missing the mark.

The factory closed two years later due to inefficiency.

Dal's first dance lesson

Dal’s First Dance Lesson

Posted

As I have stated in other essays I have written, I attended a one room country school in the late forties and early fifties.  After the war was over someone made the decision that we “farm kids” needed a little culture.  As a result, Mrs. Leaver was hired to teach music to us rednecks for one hour a week.  She and her husband ran a dry cleaning service in Auburn.  That has nothing to do with this story; I just thought I would throw it in for the heck of it.

One day during forth grade Mrs. Leaver announced that we kids were going to learn how to dance.  We had to dance while the other kids sang the following song:

Paw-Paw Patch

Where, oh where, is pretty little Ellie?
Where, oh where, is pretty little Ellie
Where, oh where, is pretty little Ellie
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch.

Chorus
Picking up paw-paws; put 'em in a basket.
Picking up paw-paws; put 'em in a basket.
Picking up paw-paws;put 'em in a basket.
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch.

The problem was that I had chosen that day to wear my knee boots to school. (Plus the fact I had no idea what dancing was)  There was a pretty girl named Bev that drew the short straw and was sentenced to be my dance partner.  Poor Bev.  I think that I trod upon her toes at least a dozen times.  When the whole thing was over, I am sure that she was as relieved as was I.

I think that Mrs. Lever saw the error of her ways.  We were never prodded into dancing again

A date really gone bad #2

A date gone really bad.

My second “bad date” occurred when I was 19.  The girl was 18 and I had dated her for about a year.  One night I went to her house to pick her up for a date.  Just before we left, the phone rang.  She gabbed away for a few minutes, laughing and so forth.  I thought it was one of her girl friends just shooting the breeze.

After we got in the car she was strangely quiet.  After a few minutes, she said,”let me off at the corner of so-and-so.  I naturally asked why.  She said the phone call was from a guy that she had met at a CYO dance the night before.  He had asked her out on a date over the phone     WHILE I WAS STANDING THERE.       And she accepted!!!!

Her excuse was, “he reminded me so much of you”.  Needless to say, I dropped her off at the corner she requested.  Never saw her again.

This is a true story.  Dal

A date gone bad. #1

I have titled this # 1 because it was the first of “several” bad dates that I endured during my early years.  It all started because I was trying to be a gentleman.  Honest.  It was a dark and stormy night.  I was a senior in high school and there were two freshman girls stranded at school after a pep meeting.  I volunteered to take them home.  Honest. 

For sake of clarity I shall identify them as girl “A” and girl “B”.  I dropped off girl “A” first.  As a true gentleman I waited till her father opened the door and let her in the house.  Her father was a teacher at the high school but I had never had him as a teacher.  Anything that he had heard about me was pure hearsay.  Honest.  As he let her in the house, I saw him shade his eyes and look at me.  I was driving a Packard automobile that looked like a gangster car.  I am sure that his mind raced with wild “untrue” thoughts.

  I proceeded to take girl “B” home.  As I pulled into her driveway, her father came running out of the house.  He opened her door, grabbed her by the arm and said, “You get into the house young lady”.  He then looked at me and said, “you, you son-of-a-***** get out of here.  As I have said before, I am not the sharpest nail in the keg but I understood what he meant.

It took a minute or so to let it sink in just what had happened.  Girl “A’s” father had called girl “B’s” father and told him that his daughter was in a car with a known sex offender, or something else. The poor girl was embarrassed to death and apologized profusely to me the next day.  I just laughed it off like it happened all the time.  Honest.

Believe it or not, this is a true story.  Dal

Casterating Pigs

Now I know that all of you out there have just been dying to know all about the above listed subject.  What it concerns is removing the male pig’s social standing in the sty!!

  In order to get you familiar with “pig terms” I shall endeavor to instruct you in the proper pig descriptions.  A young pig shortly after weaning is referred to as a “shoat”.  The unbred female is referred to as a “gilt”.  The male shoat is referred to as a “boar”.  This nomenclature is soon to be changed unless the male pig is to be kept for breeding purposes.  If so, he remains a boar.

  The un-lucky group of male pigs that remains is about to have its social standing altered.  This will cause the soon to be altered male great distress as he will become a “barrow”. 

 

The operation starts with three (3) men entering the sty.  The first is referred to as the “hooker”.  It is his responsibility to catch the male pigs and transport them to the “holder”.  The “holder” bends down in a squat, much like a baseball catcher and cradles the unlucky pig up-side-down by all four feet, exposing the pig’s private parts.  The pig greatly resents this intrusion on his happy life in the sty and responds by sounding off with a series of loud “wheeees”.  No matter, his fate is sealed.  Enter the “hatchet” man”.  The “hatchet man” actually uses a single edged razor blade to perform his craft.  He grasps the scrotum of the pig and pinches one side.  This forces the testicle to push against the outer skin of the scrotum, or as we hayseed farmers call it, (“the tobacco sack”) the “hatchet man” then slits the scrotum and forces the testicle to pop out of the scrotum.  The “hatchet man” then pulls the testicle up and cuts it off with the razor and tosses it aside.  The same procedure is then performed on the other testicle.  The pig is strangely silent except for an occasional grunt during this “operation”

  After the procedure is complete the pig is swabbed with a mixture of turpentine and lard.  This is to ward off infection?

  After being released, the pig does not move away as fast as you would expect.  He stands there with a dazed look on his face, unable to comprehend what has just happened to him.  Needless to say the next day he moves around a bit stiff legged with a bewildered air about him.  He knows something drastic has happened but not what it was.  Poor pig.

  There, I have told you more than you ever wanted to know about “pig operations”

Dal

Can you outsmart a red squirrel ?

This past week Connie complained that a red squirrel was eating all the sunflower seed from our bird feeder.  She wanted me to solve the problem and save some bird seed.  Naturally, I jumped at the challenge of the task.  I designed a feeder holding device made from two pieces of strap iron and separated by 2” blocks at 18” intervals. When I put it in place I found that the vertical strength was fine but the slightest breeze made the yaw uncontrollable.  Back to the drawing board.  Score:   squirrel 1, Dal  0

  I went back in my woods to check out the parts department. (Connie calls it a junk pile).  I found a piece of old electrical conduit 1” in diameter and 10’ long.  This inspired a new idea that just had to work!!  I fastened the conduit on an oak tree with 8’ extending in the air on a 45 degree angle.  I installed an off center “rat guard”  50” from the centerline of the tree .  The rat guard was square with an oversized hole that caused it to spin when an uneven weight was applied to any corner.  I held it in position by placing a ty-wrap on the down side.  This left just less than 4’ from the guard to the end of the pole.  On the end of the pole if fastened a 40’ length of #11 wire connected to the bird feeder.

  The speed at which the squirrel could run was checked  by bellowing at him while he was under the feeder to see how long it took him to reach a tree 39 feet away.  I clocked him with my stopwatch at just less than 3 seconds or 13 fps.  My guess was that the force of gravity would drag him down before he could leap the distance from the rat guard to the feeder.  Wrong again.  The squirrels must have a ballistic leap.  Score squirrels 2,  Dal 0

  Then I came up with a plan that couldn’t fail.  I shot um both with my 12 gauge shotgun.  Score Dal  2, Squirrels 2.  I figure that I won by a TKO because the squirrels were not able to come out for round 3.

The old Indian

THE OLD INDIAN

Years ago I heard the story of an old  Indian elder.  He was well respected by his fellow tribe members because of his old age, experiences, and wisdom.  He and his wife lived in quiet dignity with other members of the tribe.  They had all they needed and shared with others the good times and the bad times.

Then the old elder died.   His wife did not enjoy the same status in the tribe as did her husband.  Her possessions were few; among them small clay bowl.  Since the tribe no longer needed her, she was cast out into a blizzard and soon died of exposure.  Her clay bowl was shattered and left with the dying woman.

  Today we have a government that is taking a few paragraphs from the old Indian story but adding a new twist.  They do not wait for the respected elder to die.  Rather, the elder is judged on his worth to the tribe and the calculated years of productivity left in his declining years.  When some hired gun from the government decides the scale has swung in a direction that is no longer in the governments favor, the Elder is cast out in the blizzard to die.  His wife is not thrown out with him, but the government confiscates her clay bowl and “redistributes” it to some other Indian that needs it more.  She has nothing to look forward to except her time to be cast out into the blizzard.

Dal Wolf.

How much is a trillion dollars

  

We keep hearing the term "TRILLION" being tossed about when speaking of the Federal budget.  Just how much is a TRILLION dollars?  Lets put some different amounts of money in perspective by measuring them in $100 bills using common measuring sticks that everyone can relate to.

 Just to make sure my calculations were correct I dug up a barrel of greenbacks that I had buried in the back yard.  A $100 bill is printed on very high quality paper and is

.005 inches thick.   A million dollars is a stack of $100 bills only 50 inches high.  I counted them and there are 10,000 of them in a million dollars.  The volume of $1 million was 2.154 cubic feet.  REMEMBER ,The stack of bills is only 50 inches high.

Therefore: 

A million dollars in $100 bills could easily fit in a small  (12" X 15") medicine cabinet.

A billion dollars in $100 dollar bills is 1000 times greater than a million and  would fill a very small room  ( 7.8 ft. X 7.8 ft )  with a 7 1/2 foot ceiling.  That stack of bills is

.79 miles high

A trillion dollars in $100 dollar bills is 1000 times greater than a billion dollars and would fill 53 double wide ( 24 x 48 feet) homes. That stack of bills would be an unimaginable

789 miles high.

You math majors check out my numbers.  I hope I am wrong.

PS:    Yes, I reburied the barrel of greenbacks.

Dal Wolf.  

Global warming

Global Warming and other things that worry me.

There is one aspect of the global warming crises that really worries me.  No, it is not the fact that Algore will become a zillionaire because of the cap and trade that is supposed to solve the problem by taxing your tail off.  The real crisis is the methane caused by cows that pass methane gas.

The only way to allow Algore and G.E. to make money off the cow methane is to tax the cow.  I do not personally know any cow that presently pays any taxes, do you?  If you cannot tax the cow, then you must tax the owner of the cow, much the same as the government taxes your car.  The problem now arises as to how much the cow, or the cow owner should pay.

Should the tax be determined by the size of the cow, its age, or by its accessories?  Does a cow with two horns pay more than a cow with no horns?  Would black cows be exempt from the tax?  How about “green cows”?  Will they get a tax break?

  The only fair way to determine what amount the cow will pay would be to install a meter on each cow to measure the frequency of methane discharge as well as the amount of methane expelled.  G.E. could manufacture the required meters at the same time they are creating the “smart grid”

  I have a personal fear of the methane tax.  I have a tendency to eat fast and therefore swallow a lot of air.  You engineers are aware, according to Newton, that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.  I expel the swallowed air much in the same way a cow expels the methane.  Will I be required to wear a “methane meter” much the same as the unfortunate cow?  Will I be taxed by the cubic feet of gas expelled or will there be a “flat flatus tax” assessed?

  This causes me to really be fearful because wearing a meter would embarrass me and I would have to hide the methane meter.  I could wear a hoop skirt or a bustle to hide the meter but this has the danger of someone mistaking my modesty for sexual dysfunction.  My only out would be to wear a bourka, much like a Muslim woman.  The problem here is that if I happened to speak to a male friend and was spotted by a Muslim man, I could be stoned to death

  As you can tell, this situation really has me worried. There is another item that has me equally worried.  It is   PIG ODOR.  As I understand it is really bad in Iowa.  As I see it there are several things that could be done.  First would be to give the pigs a deodorant.  I don’t know if underarm deodorant would work as pigs do not have arms.  Someone would have to come up with an under ham and under shank deodorants or perhaps a combination of both.  This of course, would require a multi-million dollar grant from the government. The pigs could also be mandated by the government to take weekly baths.

   I have a much simpler solution to the problem but I can see why no one in government would consider it.  I would simply move the people upwind of the pigs or move the pigs downwind from the people.  Damn I am smart.    

  Turtle mortality also bothers me.  It can be a real problem in Florida.  In Florida the turtles are much like the people. They cannot read.  They tend to cross the roads where there are no crosswalks.  The result is that turtle meets tire and the result is the turtle tends to lose the encounter.  Fortunately our congress has come up with a plan to install “turtle underpasses” at strategic points along the hi-ways.  The only thing that has not been determined is how Algore can get his bread hooks on the stimulus money.  As soon as that is figured out, construction can begin.

Since I started this missile the government has come up with several ideas; among them are the “Cash for Clunkers” program and the latest version of “Obamacare”.  God help us all!!!

Cap and Trade

Letter: Flush with insight  

  I managed to get a letter to the editor published in the local Naples paper.  I think this qualifies me for a Pulitzer  prize.      Dal

I have just figured out “cap and trade.”

Let’s say the federal government limits the number of times you can flush your toilet to two times per day and charges you 10 cents per flush in taxes. Let’s call it a “flush tax.”

You happen to not need two flushes per day because the government has limited your ability to generate income and you are starving to death. You will be glad to sell your extra flush back to the government and accept 5 cents as a tax rebate. That way you can survive just a bit longer.

Your one flush then actually then costs you 15 cents. Let’s call it a “hidden” tax.

The government then takes your extra flush and turns it over to a Wall Street trader who deals in “flush tax” trading. The trader then finds someone that is “overproducing” and desperately needs extra flushes because he consumes so much to maintain a high level of productivity. He must buy extra flushes.

The cost for extra flushes is set by the government at $1 each. The overproducer has three choices: pay the extra “flush tax” for the required flushes and raise prices, go out of business or move his production to a place that has no “flush tax.”

The Wall Street trader collects a 5 percent fee per “flush tax” traded or 5 cents. The 95 cents that remains is considered an “investment” by the government and is taxed at 100 percent. This investment is doled out in the form of “bailouts” for worthy (?) causes.

There. Explained.

Another thesis on man/woman

Another Thesis by Dal

Having such a resounding success with my last treatise on “kissing”, I have decided to explore other strange habits, doings, and other oddities practiced by Man (woman).  This amateur anthropologist is on a roll.  Since I have so much time on my hands, and am too lazy to do anything productive, I have decided to take on the study of “attraction”.

What is it that attracts man to woman and woman to man.  For instance, why do Japanese men find a woman’s neck such an attraction.  Why do some African men find a woman with disc’s inserted in her upper and lower lips to be a knock-out?  I personally think it makes the woman look like a duck.  What is it about a bone in the nose?  But, who am I to judge someone else’s opinion of beauty.

In America, men are twitter-pated by a woman’s legs, waist, buttocks, mammary glands, face and hair.  Pretty much the whole woman, piece by piece.  A woman is attracted by a man’s leg muscles, gluteus maximus, abs, pectoral muscles, broad shoulders, hair, (or lack of), eyes, and nose.  There are a few more items than a woman finds attractive, but you get the picture.

Why no one in the western hemisphere interested in, for example, toes, is a mystery.  What is the matter with knee caps as being something to drool over?  What about wrists and fingernails?  Men are attracted by a woman’s eye lashes, but a woman could care less about a man’s.

Most men find a shorter woman to be attractive, but women like their men to be tall.  Some women will fall head over heels for a crumb bum, but others find a well heeled man to be just her cup of tea.  Neither in today’s world think of a person of great girth to be attractive.  Ancient man (woman) might have had a different opinion as this type of person could better weather a famine

Again, I think it all boils down to what both sexes consider to be the things that will best promote healthy offspring.  Being a man, there are some of these attributes (wow) that I find to be reasonable, others are unfathomable. Perhaps these questions are best unsolved.  What a dull world this would be if everyone liked the same thing.  We would find a large majority of both sexes to be chasing after a smaller group of the opposite gender.

With tongue in cheek and head on sideways, I remain, Dal

A good laugh

As many of you know, Connie bought a red convertible sports car , in December,  while we were in Florida.  The following is an incident that happened on our way to the lake this weekend.

  Connie had stopped in Waterloo to buy a newspaper and get some happy hour “fixins” while I sat in the car with the top down.  The following is an exchange with a “gentleman” that came wobbling down the street.

Gent:  That sure is a purty car.  I always has liked red.  Is it brand new?

Dal:  Actually it is my girlfriend’s car.  She bought it in Florida.

Gent:  Florida?  Sure is a nice place.  (He then walked around the car)  By golly, it does have Florida plates on it. Don’t it?

Dal:  Yeah, She bought it there after her husband died.  He left her a pile of money and she is having a good time spending it.

Gent:  He died?  Shore am sorry about that.

Just then Connie came back from the store.

Gent:  I shore like your car.  I always liked red convertibles.

Connie:  Well I had to wait 49 years for it and I think that I deserved it

Gent:     Walks away mumbling.

Dal:  Bends over with head below dash and multitasked.  (Snorted snot through nose, passed gas, and almost peed his pants)

Connie:  Backs car into street. And says “what in the world is the matter with you”?

When we stopped at a light a block down the street, I explained the exchange between the gent and I, and how her statement at the end was the perfect (unknowing) retort and really fit the situation.  We both got quite a laugh from the whole thing.

Dals rules of life

Da

Never use a stop watch to time your wife’s labor pains.

If someone spits on the floor in front of you, it means he doesn’t like you.

If your boss says that you are too valuable to promote, he is lying.

If you have an impossible job and you explain that to your boss and he offers to fire you, it is permissible to go back to your desk and have a good cry.  When your snot starts to pile up on your desk pad, it is time to stop.  Blow your nose, dry your eyes, grit your teeth, and soldier on.

If the same boss stops by your desk while you are working and says, “I hear that you are going to have a hemorrhoid operation”.  “When you come back to work you will be a perfect  -------, so how would you like to have a job in work measurements”.  Jump at the chance.

Never argue with your wife.  She is smarter than you are.

Thank God that HE was wise enough to bless you with the wife you have, rather than the dizzy blond that you were chasing before you met your wife.

Bite the bullet and accept minor punishment, rather than see someone else suffer a major career setback.  You will get over it and never regret it.

Never pull a manure spreader full of pig droppings too fast.  Really dirty corncobs will defy the laws of physics as well as gravity and whack you in the back of the head.

Mow your lawn carefully if your yard line is close to where your neighbor chains his dog.

Treat your kids nicely.  After all, they are miniature versions of you and they will be the ones that cry at your funeral.

Give those same kids $1000 (or more) each year for Christmas.  They will know that it comes from the heart and will be able to buy something they really want (and need).  They will think of you every time they enjoy the item. (This is especially true if you are a cheapskate)

Rake the leaves in your yard so that they do not blow over on your neighbor’s yard.  Better yet, gather up his leaves.

Feed the neighbors dog “doggie treats” every day.  The dog will be a loyal friend but you do not have to worry about his upkeep

The guy in the office that glad hands everyone and slaps the boss on the back usually ends up being a politician.

If you go for a job interview and the interviewer tells you that you do not have the education or experience to do the job, it means that he wants someone that he can pay less.

Be proud of what you have accomplished in life.  Work so that you can be proud.

Decorate your house the way your wife wants.  After all, she spends more time than you do.  You can always retreat to your shop or garage or the basement to enjoy your own environment.

If your wife wants a sports car, buy her one.  That way you can have at least a partial choice and she will not end up with a pile of iron.  Better yet, let her buy it by herself.  That way you are not to blame for anything.

Keep in touch with your kids.  Call them at least once a week.  Better yet, get them in the habit of calling you.

Do things with your wife.  Play golf with her at least once a year even if you dislike golf.  Go out for lunch or dinner once a week.  She will appreciate the chance to get out and be with you.  For God’s sake don’t take her to a cheap eating establishment.

Let your wife enjoy time with her female friends, doing things she enjoys.  After all, she spent time raising the kids while you were socializing at work.

Admire her flowers.

Treat your neighbor with respect.  That doesn’t mean you can’t tell him that he full of condensed owl droppings up to his eyebrows if you say it in a nice way.

I wish that I had followed all my “rules”. I have not, but I would have been a better person if I had.

Dal Wolf

A Belated Valentine

A few years ago a young couple were about to have their first baby.  They had been married three years and were really looking forward to the birth of their first child.  When the woman went to the hospital, after she had started labor, things started to go downhill.

The woman was having a lot of trouble during her labor.  The doctor became very worried and told the father and mother that the couple faced a difficult choice.  He could take the baby out of the mother in parts and pieces, thus saving the mother’s life or take a chance on letting the baby be born and perhaps lose both the mother and baby.  The couple belonged to a church that did not believe in the taking of an innocent life.  They had no choice but to let nature take its course and hope that God would be merciful to both the mother and baby.

God was merciful.  Both the mother and baby survived.  The baby became a beautiful young lady and I was fortunate enough to meet her.  A year later she agreed to be my wife.  On April 22^ND 2011 we will have been married for fifty years.  Let’s just call this a belated Valentine. 

 I love you very much Connie.

I think of her parents faith and courage almost every day.

Dal       

 ( This was a letter to the Editor of the Naples Daily News that they did publish)

A Day At St. Vincents sales store

A DAY AT ST. VINCENT DE PAUL “GOODWILL” SHOP

Connie decided that since she plays bingo, tosses horse shoes, has a domino party, goes to stage performances and plays golf and bowls, that I needed something to do in MY “spare time”.  She volunteered my time to work at St. Vincent De Paul’s clothing warehouse...  When I entered the place, I was given a short orientation and found that the guy that founded the place died at age 40 and left many children, not much else.  The chief Honcho was a fellow named Pablo.  Pablo did not speak English, had hands the size of small hams, outweighed me by fifty pounds and was about 6’6” tall.  I decided not to use my Spanish on him mainly because my Spanish consists of dirty words I learned while stationed at Ft. Bliss in El Paso.   Wise move on my part.  I was also instructed not to insult any of the patrons.  Shucks, my favorite pastime is insulting people.

They told me that I had several choices of work.  The options were pricing, appliance repair, cash register, and sorting.  I told them to just give me the dirtiest job and I would work up from there.  They suggested that I work in “men’s pants”.  That was OK by me.

When I entered the men’s sorting area I was met by the pants section leader.  His nickname was “The Pope”.  He didn’t wear a robe or red slippers, but did have a skull cap.  I suspect that it was to cover a bald spot.  My co-worker in the sorting section was Steve.  He had several weeks experience in pants sorting so he was assigned to be my mentor.  I was classified as an apprentice sorter.  After 2 weeks you are upgraded to master pants sorter.  Quick promotions in the pants sorting dept.  I was given instructions in how to measure the waist size and inseam length.  Tough guidelines there.  A special instruction was given on how to check the pockets.  It seems that a couple of months ago a woman gave away a pair of mans pants belonging to her husband.  The couple came rushing back a day later because he had left his dentures in the pants pocket.  No one seemed to know if the teeth were found but there was a poster on the wall warning of such things.   A sad but true story.  I kept looking for any stray one thousand dollar bills, but did not find any. 

 I did make an important discovery and was able to share my discovery.  It seems that every once in a while a pair of women’s blue jeans gets mixed up with the men’s clothing.  I noticed that the woman’s blue jeans had an extremely short zipper whereas the men’s zipper was much longer.  I shared this important bit of information with the Pope and Steve.  Both seemed appreciative of my astute powers of observation.  They both agreed that it should be a part of the normal inspection procedure.

Steve had been an officer in the Army airborne.  He told me that he had to quit the Airborne because he split his crotch on a practice jump.  I had already noticed that his legs seemed extraordinarily long.  He then related the fact about his recent polyp surgery .  The Pope came over and told about the broken arm and leg he got in Korea.  I told them that I had an active case of VD. But was told that recovery should be complete in just a few more months.  Both moved a few feet further away.  The Pope said a prayer and the paratrooper grabbed his crotch.

At break time we went down to the coffee shop.  Both Steve and The Pope still kept their distance from me.  That was strange because I had made every attempt to be friendly.  When we got to the break area I noticed The Pope whispered something to one of the women. Probably some Pope Business thing.   She got up from the table and moved to the side of the room.  Several others did the same thing.  All kept an eye on me.  I guess it was the animal magnetism that I exclude.  At least I had the table to myself.

When it came time to leave, we had to sign out on a log.  I asked why since we had already signed in.  I was told that about a year ago a woman was so absorbed in clothes sorting she did not know it was time to leave and got locked in the place.  She had to use her cell phone to call her husband.  He was able to contact the supervisor and get her out.

  When signing out I observed the person that signed out after me wiped the pen vigorously with a tissue…    Strange.  Such was my first day of volunteer work.

  The Next day I got there at the appointed time and proceeded to park my car in the rear of the lot as is my custom.  I saw a large palletainer of clothes at the rear of the lot.  It had a large sign that said:

DANGER (PELEGRO) --- CONTAMINATED MATERIALS.

             DO NOT TOUCH OR HANDLE

CONDEMED BY THE COLLIER COUNTY BOARD OF HEALTH

I was a bit surprised because I saw several pairs of colorful pants that I was sure I had seen the day before as I was sorting pants.  As I neared the building there was a large new banner over the door that read:

“PEOPLE WITH SOCIAL DISEASES SHOULD NOT VOLENTEER TO WORK AT ST. VINCENT DE PAUL”                 

I went in anyway, signed in, and proceeded to the “men’s pants” area.  Pablo started to follow me muttering something in Spanish.  One of the words sounded strangely like one of the dirty words that I learned at Ft. Bliss.  Several workers grabbed Pablo.  They must have had pressing problems that needed his immediate attention.   I noticed people hugging the walls as I passed.  Strange, I thought.  I have only been here one day and have attracted the attention of everyone.  It must be my work ethic.  As I entered the “pants” area, “the Pope gave the sign of the cross and bolted out of the door.  The ex-paratrooper Yelled “Geronimo”, and leaped out a window.  With my suntan I must look like a Native American in need of a spiritual blessing.  It was sort of lonely working alone.  When I left that day, I noticed that the sign out sheet was gone and the area freshly scrubbed.  The break area had not been used that day.  It was clean as a pin.  By the time I go next time I hope things have settled down and people don’t act so strange.

Well, a week has passed since I last worked at St. Vincent’s.  When I got there this afternoon I entered with some trepidation because I had no idea if the natives would be friendly or not.  Not to worry, as I entered the door there was another huge banner that proclaimed:   DAL HAS BEEN CURED AND IS SAFE TO BE AROUND AS HE IS AGAIN HARMLESS.  I was pleased.  It was signed by the Collier county Board of Health.

Everyone genuinely seemed glad to see me.  As I entered the men’s pants sorting area both the Pope and Steve greeted me warmly.  The Pope even gave me my master’s pants sorting certificate.   Lucky Steve, he found (4) $20 bills in a pair of pants. (No joke).  I will bet it was some poor guy’s poker winnings that he didn’t want his wife to know about.  Steve turned it over to the head cashier.  I think that I would have treated everyone at the free coffee break.  I spent the whole morning sorting out several boxes of very high quality shirts and pants.  Some poor guy probably died and his wife got rid of all his clothes.  All the pants were 46-29.  The guy must have been built like a bowling ball.

 I learned several new things today that I am sure will earn me a cluster to wear with my master sorting certificate.  If you come across a pair of pants that are so colorful that that you think to yourself, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that”, they are probably women’s pants.  To be sure of the pants gender, check the manufacturing label.  If the makers name is “LIZ” or some other non male sounding name, consign them to the “sorting return” area.  If you find a pair of walking shorts, gym shorts, or others, without a fly, they ain’t male pants.  If you find a HUGE expensive looking pair of shorts that would easily fit a cow and does not have a waist size but is marked “S”, be assured it is a female garment.  An expensive looking pair of pants without any waist or inseam length is probably tailor made.  One last learning experience was due to a pair of funny shaped pants that looked as though they would fit Pappy Yokum.  They had a huge elastic band at the top.  One of the women that worked in the ladies clothes section informed me that they were maternity pants.  Oh.

I tried to convince the Pope and Steve that they should try to be more efficient by breaking up the sorting routine.  Instead of measuring, tagging, getting a hanger from the hanger bin, assembling pants to hanger, and walking each pair to the rack that it was much better to size, tag, and lay the pants to one side.  Get a bunch of hangers and toss them on the shelf above the work station.  Pull the rack up close to your assembly bench.  Then assemble the hanger to the pants, then turn and hang each pair of pants to the rack.  The Pope threatened to cast me into hell for breaking Union rules and Steve said he was going to file a grievance with the union steward.  I just can’t win.

I went to St. Vincent’s the next day to work at my usual job, pants sorting.  Just after starting I was paid a visit by the Chief Honcho, Pablo.  He told me that I was being considered for a position in “appliance repair”.  He explained that it was a real advancement for someone of my limited time on the pants sorting job but that my diligence had been noticed by “higher ups”.  He explained that the position was not a sure thing but that he would put in a good word for me.   I strongly suspected that I was being booted upstairs because of the labor dispute and grievance filed by my co-workers last week.  A quick peek at the looks on the faces of John and Steve confirmed my suspicion.

I was given a short tour of the appliance repair section and met the fellow that might be my new mentor.  His name was Claude.   He was 82 years old and told me that he just couldn’t stand for four hours at a time any more.  He did not have a chair because as soon as he found a comfortable one some “poor” person bought it.  He strongly suspected that it was an effort to force him out by having a “mole” buy any chair that he elected to use.  I truly felt sorry for him but glad that I might get such a challenging job.  Claude explained the routine of inspection and repair.  He showed me the work required on a toaster.  First you inserted two pieces of burned bread into the toaster slots.  (Only two slices of bread are used per day because the facility is on such a tight budget).  The method was as follows:  Insert the two pieces of toast.  Check to see if the 4 elements get red or possibly just hot.  Make sure that the toast pops up after a reasonable time and is at least warm.   If the toaster fails any of the above tests, it is repaired by tossing it in the trash.

This Monday was full of disappointments.  I had no sooner than arrived at the pants sorting station than I was met by Claude from the appliance department.  His eyes were brimming with tears as he recounted his trials this morning.  He was let go from the appliance repair and replaced by “young buck” that was only 75 years old.  He was downgraded to the receiving dock to unloading clothes.  That is pretty heavy work and he is afraid he will have to quit after over 20 years on the job.

More lies later

Breakfast at the white house

The following is a letter to the editor of the Naples daily News 3-34-2011 by Chuck Smith Good morning Mr. President, what would you like for breakfast? Not sure, Michelle. Check the polls and see what people are eating. Sir, 28 percent are having pancakes; 15 percent are eating eggs. What about the other 50 percent? What are they eating? Oh sir, those are Republicans; they always get to work before breakfast. Well, OK. Get hold of Congress and see what they are eating. Sir, the House is having lean beef, and the Senate is having crow again today. Not crow! I’m getting tired of the same thing. Call the vice president. Sir, he’s not awake yet, but they tell me his eyes are open. Good grief! Call the joint chiefs of staff. They know about man food. I’ve got to have a few more opinions. But honey, you’ve already dithered away one hour. You’re right, Michelle. I’m the leader of the free world and I’ve decided to have a big bowl of Wheaties, breakfast of champions. Call the press secretary and arrange a 11 a.m. press conference. The nation deserves to know what their commander-in-chief has had for breakfast. Wonderful sir, will you be having fruit? Michelle, don’t even go there. — Chuck Smith

The following is my response to his letter. 

Chuck Smith’s Letter about Obama’s breakfast that appeared on 3-24 was correct as far as it went.  My unimpeachable sources tell me that he did have fruit for breakfast.  The conversation continued as follows.

But Barack, you know that fruit is an important part of my anti obesity program.

You are right Michelle but the fruit has to be green.  How about an avocado?

It is green Barack, but has too many calories, how about trying a green pineapple?

That sounds good Michelle, but it has to come from one of our 57 states.  Hawaii comes to mind.

OK, that is settled Barack, now you need just a bit of sweetener.  A small sprinkle of sugar would be OK.

Wonderful!!  We can get it from Cuba Michelle.  That will help us in the International field.  We can subsidize it too, to help the poor people.

One percent milk would help to round out the dish, but that might curdle in your stomach Barack.

No problem my dear.  We have free health care you know.

Wait, I have it, Barack!!  We can get the milk from Wisconsin.  That would show our union solidarity.

 What a wonderful idea Michelle.  Can I have an after breakfast mint too? 

Dal Wolf        Naples & Auburn, In

Dal's new method of math

 The past week has led me to calculate a whole new concept of numbers.  (There he goes again says you).  Consider the following:

Zero would be expressed as a vertical line.  (Keep in mind that zero is an even number)

One, an odd number would be expressed same as "0" with a hook at he the top that would make it look like the current "one"

Two, being an "even" number would be expressed as a vertical line with a horizontal base thus showing two (2) right angles

Three, an odd number would be the same as "2" with a hook on top.

All even numbers would be created by using different numbers of horizontal lines (crossing the one vertical line) in addition to the even number preceding it.

When reaching 10, you would place a dot or colon: between the two symbols.  Symbols would be listed same as current system.

Addition would be as follows:  The greater number would precede the lesser number.  The student would count the number of angles and make a hash mark below the symbol for both numbers.  The student would then count the number of hash marks and would arrive at the correct answer.  This would eliminate rote learning and force the student to calculate each answer.

Subtraction would be accomplished the same way.  After marking the hash marks, the student would cross off a hash mark on the first (larger) number for each of the hash marks in the second number.  The remaining hash marks are the answer.

I don't know about you but my head is starting to ache.

With tongue in cheek:   Sir Isaac (Dal) Wolf

Florida controversy

There has been a really heated battle being waged in Collier County, Florida.  It really would not be very serious to the outsider but those that live here have drawn heated battle lines and are ready to slug it out, verbally, physically, and in court, if necessary.  The whole battle centers on a County mascot.  I know that seems trivial but to the natives it is dead serious.

The two sides have different ideas about the proper animal to be elevated to the level of “supreme adorable creature”.  One side favors the Florida Manatee.  The other side favors the Florida Panther.  The manatee is a quiet creature that swims slowly along in fresh water eating underwater vegetation.  They favor warm water and can be found in large groups around power plant discharges of heated water.  They can often be mistaken by black floating garbage bags.  Early sailors mistook them for mermaids.  Talk about being hard up!!!

The Florida Panther is a reclusive creature.  It is seldom seen except as road kill.  They have a nasty habit of jaywalking instead of using marked cross walks to cross a road.  They eat just about anything that moves, crawls, or walks.  Panther backers are passionate in their defense of their choice of animal.

In my own humble opinion neither the manatee nor panther qualify as the perfect mascot for Florida since neither one is known to all natives and non-natives alike.  My choice is one that almost everyone encounters in their daily travels about the County.  My choice is a speeding garbage truck, driven by an illegal alien, speeding through a red light.

Dal