The ‘F-bomb’ goes big time


Not that you will ever see it dropped in this space, but the F-bomb has entered the language mainstream.    It is now a defined term although the full spelling is still some years away from acceptance and regular use in polite print media.

That it makes it in the abridged version is a commentary on the state of civil discourse.  In some ways, I’d rather see/hear it than the much more vile tone of this season’s political discourse.  Forgive me, but I have stooped to a couple of F-bombs uttered aloud (and a few WTFs too) over my morning coffee as I read what passes for facts these days.  Both sides fudge, but the award for the most consistently skewed effort goes to the Karl Rove-inspired 25-years-in-the-making attack at any cost right side.  For crying out loud, if your veep choice can’t (or at worst, won’t) get his facts straight on any number of economic and environmental issues, well, my WTFs have some merit.

Emma must be thinking 'I can handle this, uncle Reid'.

On a softer side, and after being pilloried for holding Emma like a football, Reid recently displayed a deft touch with his niece.  Nice job, kid.

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The U.S. Postal Service delivered this letter to Ellen and Reid last week.

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August 27, 2012

Ellen/Reid: Once again, I cannot close the deal on the golf course.  A hopeful opening nine of 39 followed by a fingernails-on-blackboard 45 on the inward 9.  It is just so totally deflating.  There is no one single problem; there are lots of problems.  Since I distain practice, perhaps 84 is the best that can be hoped for.  But the ‘what if…’ mode of thinking keeps creeping into the picture.  I hope Emma never picks up the game.  No, it would be fine if she did.  Gramps will need someone to play with since I will have scared off all the others by then.

I’m on board to teach another college class in mid-September.  I fumble a bit with the class on blogging but this time it’s on straight news/content writing which will be a little closer to my skill sets.  So far the enrollment is a bit spotty but folks tend to sign up at the last minute so we’ll see.  As long as the college will continue to have me, I’ll teach.  Ellen, I could use some of your classroom organizational prowess.

The ‘F-bomb’ has made it into the lexicon.  Merriam-Webster’s dictionary has added it to the list of dictionary-able terms.  Never thought I’d live to see the day.  You can expect that any day now Fox News will begin to use it to attract a hipper, yet still news-dense, audience.  I sent a note to Norm Goldstein, late of the AP Stylebook, about this unfortunate incident but he hasn’t said anything as of yet.  We continue to lower our language civility threshold one bad word at a time, although I must confess I am a shameless abuser.  Hope my glass house can withstand all the tossed stones.

About the time you get this, Hurricane Isaac, or tropical storm Isaac by the time it gets here, will be dumping a lot of water on the Southeast.  We need the rain but not quite as badly as you guys need it in the Midwest.  There have been a ton of photos that show stunted, runty and kernel-less corn cobs in your neck of the woods.  I’m afraid it is a feast-or-famine twist on global warming.  You have a lot of water one day and almost no moisture the next.  There’s so much hot political air swirling around in these parts you’d think the huffing and puffing would shove the storm up your way.  That would be a highest-and-best use of that unfortunately renewable resource.

Just read on CNN that a hiker was killed by a grizzly in Alaska.  That will be fuel to the fire for next year’s hiking extravaganza no matter where we go.  Makers of bear spray can’t buy this sort of advertising.  What is really sad is the poor guy was taking photos up until the very last second before the attack.  Now that is wild.

It exhausts me just to hear about all the traveling you guys have been doing.  Jeez, that’s a lot of road time.  Ah, but you might as well do it while you’re young and have boundless energy.  Reid, you looked entirely more comfortable holding your niece that you did when you visited Emma in Minnesota.  She was even sacked out in one of the shots.  My theory, however, is that every minute she sleeps during day translates to five (maybe 10?) minutes of awake (“I’m ready to play!”) time at night.  Ellen, you will have to confirm that mathematical formula for me.

This is a short week for me in that, unless Isaac pounds us on Thursday and Friday, I’ll tee it up on Friday with my friend Mike from the bank.  There will be no end of trash talk and finger pointing with him while we play.  He has steadfastly held the upper hand because he gets two strokes a side, although it’s time I knocked him off his pedestal.

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