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Waiters and waitresses (hereafter called “servers”) depend upon perquisites (tips) to make up for unconscionable wages and make their labors worthwhile. This creates a bit of a problem. You see, Management does not want, ever, to fire a server except for such flagrant behavior as would be provably illegal and let them, Management, off the hook for the state-imposed penalties for adding, even temporarily, to the unemployment rolls. Ergo, it matters little if you tell the dining room manager that your server smells, gets the order wrong, or simply is inefficient beyond belief.

The only way you are going to “correct” that server is to make the tip small enough to ensure they know you didn’t err, but wanted to send a message–to them.

You dare not write, as I used to, a note indicating the source of your displeasure, or any possible remedy they might apply to correct it. Surely, should you do this, you will find your note posted on every social media app, and you will then be harangued for your act of cruelty by hoards who believe the server is entitled to the tip. (They are not,  by the way; that is why it is called a tip or perquisite. It is, in effect, a reward for having left you as pleased as Punch about your dining experience–their part in it, anyway.)

Now, having upset you “entitlement” folks, I shall proceed while you wipe the spittle from your screens.

The biggest problem with servers (the ones I am talking about, not the ones who get it) is that they don’t think of you as patrons but as “you guys.” They will fit you in to their way of doing things. It is your job, now, to be understanding and patient…and patient…and patient…

They asked you if you wanted anything else, but you were supposed to say no. So, you asked, in ignorance, for some ketchup for your fries. “Certainly,” they reply, then wipe it from their mind. Next, your cup/glass is empty; the bottom has dried out while you hoped you’d be asked if you wanted a refill. Finally you’re asked. But instead of them going to fulfill your request, they take three orders, input them into the station, fetch bread and beverages for those diners, then pass back by, asking if everything is okay– while not slowing to hear any response.

Okay. You’ve given up. You’ve eaten your fries, cold, with no ketchup. You ask for a box for the leftovers, and the check. Now, this is the time for them to deduce that 1. you are ready to leave, and 2. that they should expedite this process so the table can be repopulated. Too much to hope for. Okay. Eventually, you get the box (after three attempts) and the check. You’re anxious to get going (you know the dog is at home with its legs crossed, needing to pee), so you have the credit card at the ready! “Here…” you say to their back. Nope, not getting it done. They’re gone again. You have the card in the holder, which you keep moving about, hoping someone will take it. E-ven-tu-al-ly, it’s taken, but it was too much to hope that they’d simply go directly to and from the register so you could be on your way. Minutes pass. (Now, this is where I begin the tip countdown from whatever I was willing to part with. Dollar a minute after the first one. That way, I have the meager satisfaction that I am exacting something in return for being made to wait yet again.)

That server isn’t going anywhere. Chances are, if you deign to enter that establishment again, that they or their clone (for they will have trained minions) will be “serving” you again. We have the “entitlement” folks to thank for this.

Oh, well. Happy dining!


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Most of today’s “scientists,” who tout the “big lie” of Evolution, for instance, do not follow the Scientific Method; they instead accept only “proofs” which support their theories…even if they prove nothing.



Most of us can’t even pronounce 700,000,000,000,000,000,000, much less count there.  For people who aren’t math geniuses, it’s 700 Quintillion.  According to recent research in Sweden, that’s the number of planets in the cosmos.  But the scientific team learned something else from their epic research project: amid those 700 quintillion planets, the Earth is one of a kind!

Astrophysicist Erik Zackrissen and his team developed a massive computer model to simulate the development of the universe.  They entered everything we know about exoplanets and then programmed in the laws of physics. They recreated 13.8 billion years of history.  The results demonstrate that life on earth defies all the odds.  Here’s how the article sums it up:  “His research indicates that, from a purely statistical standpoint, Earth perhaps shouldn’t exist.”

The writer for Discover concludes that “Earth appears to have been dealt a fairly lucky hand.”  That’s funny!  Three Aces and…

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There were lots of actors, but few “stars.”  Some of the best actors and actresses never achieved fame outside their peers, yet were some of the most-needed folks on set: character actors.  A few, like George “Gabby” Hayes or Pat Brady, to name a couple, garnered a following, but for the most part they “just” supported the stars who, without them as foils, would have been “just actors.”  That, today, anyone who gets more than a couple of lines is called a “movie star” is balderdash. Piffle. Twaddle.

When I began watching football back in the sixties, the idea that “There is no ‘I’ in ‘TEAM'” was pretty much true.  Even more, teams were comprised of individuals who mostly thought, “Wait. You mean I can play this game I love and you’ll pay me too?”  Most had to have off-season “careers,” even if it was slopping the hogs back on the farm.

Both the NFL and Hollywood seem to think that they have become integral to our society – but they have not.  While America entertains itself to death, the pedestals upon which we, collectively, have placed these idols are wearing away, and these images we have erected are proving to be, upon closer examination, hollow and tarnished, rusting, having been made from material with elemental impurities that has not once passed through the crucible of life to be refined.

It is this conferring of star status (and the accompanying mindless contracts), not the current hullabaloo, which had already caused me to eschew most movies and professional sports.

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Originally from https://hellopoetry.com/PluviophileSr/

To football players who take a knee :

To the NFL players who took a knee during the playing of the National Anthem.

So, you want to take a knee?

Take a trip to Valley Forge in January. Hold a musket ball in your fingers and imagine it piercing your flesh and breaking a bone or two. There won’t be a doctor or trainer to assist you until after the battle. Wait your turn while listening to the screams of pain from the wounded.
Then take a knee.

Go to Normandy where man after American man stormed the beach, dodging dead bodies and withering machine gun fire,…the very sea stained with American blood. Imagine that your fellow players are your dead brothers in arms.
Then take a knee.

Take a knee in the sweat soaked jungles of Vietnam. Over 60,000 Americans died in those jungles.There was no playbook or million dollar contracts for doing your job, but they understood what our flag represented. When they came home, they were protested by their fellow Americans.
Then take a knee while they spit on you.

Take another knee in the blood drenched sands of Fallujah in 110 degree heat..Trade in your pads for a Kevlar helmet and battle dress…You’ll have to stay hydrated, but there won’t be anyone to squirt Gatorade into your mouth. And watch out for those IEDs when you take a knee.

There’s a lot of places to take a knee. Americans have given their lives all over the world. When you use the banner under which they fought as a source for your protest, you dishonor the memories of those who bled for the very freedoms you have. That’s what the red stripes mean. It represents the blood of those who spilled it defending your liberty.

So while you’re on your knee, pray for those that came before you, not on manicured fields striped and printed with numbers to announce every inch of game yardage…but on nameless hills and bloodied beaches and sweltering forests and bitter cold mountains…every inch marked by an American life lost serving that flag you protest.

No cheerleaders, no announcers, no coaches, no fans…just American men and women on the land, air, and sea, delivering the real fight against those who chose to harm us..so you would have the opportunity to dishonor their service by “taking a knee.”

You have no clue what it took to get you where you are…but your “protest” is duly noted. Not only is it disgraceful to a nation, it points to your ingratitude for those who chose to defend you under that banner that will still wave long after your stats and game jersey are forgotten…

If you really feel the need to take a knee, come with me to church on Sunday and we’ll both kneel before Almighty God. We’ll thank Him for preserving this country for as long as He has. We’ll beg forgiveness for both of our ingratitude for all He has provided us. We’ll appeal to Him for understanding and wisdom. We’ll pray for liberty and justice for all…because He is the one who provides those things.

But no protesting allowed. There will only be gratitude for His provision and a plea for His continued grace and mercy on the land of the free and the home of the brave.

May He continue to bless America, the ignorant and selfish sinners we all are. What an incredible gift He has given us!

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Once Upon A Pie

Back in the early fifties when most ladies wore one-piece bathing suits which covered their buttocks and their breasts – and everything in between, when prepubescent children wore either swimming trunks or simply their underpants, and when “suntan lotion” was mostly baby oil with a tropical fragrance, the developed portion of Ocean City, Maryland, went up to perhaps 20th Street and the Boardwalk. One of the first motels (for before then, most accommodations were in rooming houses) was the Sea Scape Motel, at 16th and Boardwalk. (It’s gone now, replaced by a Hyatt Place, to open in 2018.) Back in those days, for a day trip a family brought their drinks and food in their Skotch Kooler, or (if they were really flush) bought hamburgers or hot dogs on the boardwalk. But for weekends or longer their choices were enhanced with diners such as the one downstairs in the Sea Scape. T’was there I formed my first crush – on Irene.

The first time I recall seeing her, I’d been given some money to go get myself some lunch. I climbed up on the rotating stool at the counter, perched on my knees, and spent some time trying to get the uniformed waitress’ attention away from some guy who was “talking her up” at the other end of the counter, but to no avail. I grew impatient with being overlooked, stretched to my best height, and let out a wolf whistle in her direction. “Dat,” as the cartoon character said, “dood it!” Smiling, she came down the counter and attended to me. I asked for a piece “of that pumpkin pie there,” in the case on the counter, got it, and enjoyed every bite. It was so good, I asked for another.

“So,” she leaned in and asked, “You liked that pumpkin pie, did you?”

“Sure did. Best I ever ate.”

“Well, Honey,” I felt myself blushing. “I’ll get you another piece, but I gotta tell you, it’s not pumpkin, it’s sweet potato pie.”

I pondered this revelation for, oh, maybe three seconds. “Sweet potato, huh?”

“‘fraid so.”

“Tasted like punkin to me. Gimme another piece, please.”

After that, when we went to Ocean City, I’d seek out Irene. We became friends, though I have no recollection of her looks or her age. Then one day, she was gone. Threw me over for some truck driver. Maybe it was that guy from the first day. I was crushed (by my crush – see what I did there?) for a time, but I got over her.

And I’ve seldom had that good a piece of sweet potato pie since.

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A DROWNING PREVENTED“Is there a shark in the water?  What’s everyone looking at?”  The spectators on Panama City Beach were transfixed by the unfolding horror of an entire family being swept out to sea. Nine members of the Ursrey family had been caught up in a powerful riptide and cast helplessly into fifteen feet of dark, turbulent waves. Their cries of terror barely reached the shore.

A few men rushed into the sea and began to link arms.  Quickly others went racing out to join them.  Within minutes, a human chain began to take shape in the midst of the chaos. People who could not swim joined hands in a surf rising to their necks. Swimmers paddled out to the end to link arms.  Soon eighty men and women had instinctively orchestrated a human lifeline nearly 100 yards long.  They reached the imperiled victims and, one by one, passed them safely back…

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When 22 people died outside a concert hall in Manchester, England, the media coverage was wall to wall.  The cry went up that something must be done! Journalists followed the investigation.  Press briefings were scheduled regularly. With broken hearts, we pored over color photographs of the victims, many of them only children, and we listened to bystanders describe their horror.  The world grieved as the story unfolded for a week.

Five days later, 29 Christians in Egypt died when terrorists attacked their bus. Forty-two others were seriously injured and the assassins got away.  That story vanished in less than 48 hours.  No color photos.  No interviews with authorities. No tragic details.

Here’s what you probably never heard.  The Christian group of parents, grandparents, and children were traveling in two buses to pray at a monastery. Their vehicles were stopped by terrorists outside the town of Minya.  After the buses were…

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