Ever do something really dumb? Sure you did, you just don’t want to tell anybody about it. Rest assured, however, that you are in the gross majority. When we were kids, I volunteered my mother’s sewing talents when Sister Joseph Ambrose needed someone to stitch perimeter fringe on forty satin May Procession capes. When I told Marie Killeen about it, she got an odd, glazed look on her face, the kind a woman might get when a plane hits her house. This is when I learned in no uncertain terms that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, one you might not like very much. I was a little more cautious after that.
Somehow, I have made it through life this far without accidentally killing myself or blowing anything up and I attribute this to my early childhood training. At my current age, any small mistake could bring down a torrent of adverse effects, so Caution is my byword. Aside from driving on Interstate 75, my likeliest avenue for error now is in my exalted capacity as barrista for Siobhan’s company, Pathogenes, Incorporated. On at least one occasion, I neglected to add three whopping teaspoons of sugar to Dr. Laura’s coffee and had to suffer the excruciating results. Have you ever watched a smiling java drinker bring the cup to her welcoming lips and suddenly realize she’s been given a foul, perhaps poisonous brew? A dark curtain falls across her field of view and menacing drums begin beating in the distance. It’s not a pretty sight, especially when the victim starts using Panamanian swear words.
In the Good Old Days, of course, we could all get away with lighting the sofa on fire or driving our car into the pool because there was no lasting proof of our follies. Now, alas, there’s a cell phone camera in every pocket and an operator just salivating at the possibility of filming a boner that goes viral. Out our way, there’s one of those occurring every few seconds.
Riding The Bozo Express
Unfortunate Urban Meyer found out about ultravisibility the other day while getting an innocent lap dance in a public space while moderately impaired. The hapless coach of the then-winless Jacksonville Jaguars had some ‘splainin’ to do to his wife, his boss, his players and the drooling general public, many of whom have done the same thing, though more discreetly. Everybody quickly forgot about Urban, though, when a few days later Las Vegas Raiders head Coach John Gruden “resigned” after complaining about another NFL team drafting “queers” and calling the league commissioner a faggot. He also said DeMaurice Smith, executive director of the NFL Players Association, had “lips the size of Michelin tires,” but then again so does Angelina Jolie and nobody’s complaining about that. Oh, by the way, Gruden forfeited a contract which would have paid $100 million over ten years. That there’s a BIG owie.
We live in Florida, of course, where dumb deeds are a dime a dozen. People here regularly tickle alligators under the chin, rob their own banks, fall through skylights while robbing stores and participate in vehicular demolition derbies, which wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t do it on the Florida Turnpike. They have also been clever enough to elect as governor the second-dumbest person in the world, Ron “Whatzat?” DeSantis. Governor Ron trails only Arab religious leader Maulana Fazlur Rehman, who claims that women wearing jeans cause all the earthquakes in the world, which is a moronic statement at best. Everyone knows that women wearing short shorts cause all the earthquakes in the world.
So Much For “Never Look A Gift Horse In The Mouth.”
There are mistakes and there are colossal errors never forgotten over millennia. Right at the top of the list is the the infamous Trojan Horse ploy the Greeks used on their befuddled enemies at Troy. Pretending to desert the war, the Greeks left behind an enormous hollow wooden horse and a man named Sinon, who convinced the Trojans the gift was an offering to Athena, goddess of war, which would make the city of Troy impregnable.
Inside the gates of Troy, the shrewd priestess Cassandra was dubious. “I’m not buying it,” she said. “Get it in here, it’ll probably explode or something.” A seer named Locoon agreed. “I smell a rat,” he bristled. “It’s National Enquirer fodder. When the dust clears, they’ll be teaching kids about it in every war college on the continent.” Meanwhile, on the nearby island of Tenedos, the Greeks tittered up their sleeves in anticipation.
Despite many diligent searches, no one has ever been able to discern the single individual who decided to let the horse in and become the greatest doofus of all time. His descendants have covered his tracks well, convincing everyone it was a company decision. As even non-readers of the Aeneid know by now, the elite Greek warriors secreted in the Trojan Horse emerged after nightfall, opened the gates and the waiting Greek army promptly captured the city, leaving Cassandra with the greatest “I told you so!” of all time. And leaving the rest of us with the world-class advice, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”
“So What’s A Little Bad Weather?”---Adolph Hitler
Der Fuehrer made a lot of mistakes, but that’s an occupational hazard of lunatics. His most famous error was believing in an easy conquest of the Soviet Union, which he thought could be accomplished by summer. When things seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace, Hitler demanded an explanation. His generals paraded in and opened a very large map of Russia. Adolph stared at it for a minute, raised his eyebrows and commented, “BIG sonovabitch! Who knew?”
Turns out, it snows a lot in the Soviet Union. It rains, too, turning bad roads to mud. German tanks sunk in 6 feet of the stuff in some spots outside Moscow. And 1941 did not turn out to be a year for balmy temperatures there….they plunged to –41, freezing tanks and other German equipment, shutting down diesel engines and freezing the cojones off teeth-rattling Nazi soldiers who were wearing the finest in photogenic spring fashions. Frostbite cases soared. Troops froze to death. Russians snorted in their vodka.
Meanwhile, back at the main event, Hitler was ordering the Luftwaffe to liquidate the British, beginning with the disablement of the troops of the Royal Air Force. The Germans were about two weeks from success when Adolph rethought his plans and instructed his air force to refocus on the indiscriminate bombing of British cities, especially London. Although the capital was reduced almost to ashes, the German casualties were so heavy Der Fuehrer had to cancel the entire English campaign. Thus the famous Hitler jeer, “Ach, du lieber, what a wiener!” a critique which lives to this day.
There Are Strange Things Done In The Midnight Sun
“Ivan, this is Alex. So get this---I just sold a pile of snow to some dumb Americans for $7.2 million. Yeah, dollars! Come on over and we’ll celebrate with some Stoli.”---Czar Alexander II, 1867.
“Yeah, well anybody can be a Monday-morning quarterback.”---voice of Czar Alexander II at a Moscow seance, 1967.
On March 30, 1867, the Russian territory of Alaska was sold to the United States for $7.2 million. At 586,412 square miles, the purchase price comes to a meager two cents per acre. Property values have appreciated somewhat since then, except maybe in Wasilla. This is even better than the deal Walt Disney got in Orlando. So why did Czar Alex do it? “Okay, I get it,” he said years later. “But it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
After being defeated by the British in the Crimean War, Russia badly needed money. Realizing that Alaska could be easily captured by the British in the future, Alexander offered to sell the colony to England. The British prime minister rejected the offer, citing “location, location, location,” thus the Russians turned to America.
The main trade in the territory at the time was the fur business and no one had thought about gold yet, so not everyone was enthusiastic about the idea. Stateside newspapers chortled and other scoffers called the deal “Seward’s Folly” after the Secretary of State who signed the papers. The territory was actually not considered profitable to the United States until the Klondike gold strike of 1896. Today, even at a piffling value of $100 an acre, Alaska would be worth a debonair $37 billion. William H.Seward has a town named after him, which goes to prove the old axiom, “You just can’t beat frigid real estate.” Which reminds us---anybody interested in a few desirable acres in Greater Detroit?
Who’ll Start The Rain
In 1871, former Civil War general Edward Powers wrote a book called War and the Weather in which he documented several battles throughout history that were followed by rain. He theorized that the loud din of battle agitated the clouds and caused them to release the rain stored therein, an idea which came to be known as Concussion Theory. Powell was not the first to postulate the notion. Greek essayist Plutarch once observed that rain seemed to follow battle and Napoleon was known to try to induce rain by firing artillery into the air.
Senator Charles Farwell of Illinois read the book, liked the idea and got Congress to appropriate $10,000 to try it out. A patent lawyer named Robert Saint George Dyrenforth was assigned the task. In 1891, Dyrenforth set up shop on the Texas prairie and let loose, blasting the clouds with mortars and with dynamite carried aloft by kites. Trailing behind the kites were balloons filled with flammable hydrogen. In case that wasn’t loud enough, Dyrenforth’s cloud wranglers increased the decibel level by packing prairie dog holes full of dynamite and setting them off as well. After the fireworks, the smiling attorney claimed the effort went off like clockwork. Since nobody was around for the hijinks, who could argue? That would be one clandestine meteorologist named George E. Curtis, who had secreted himself in the area and watched, then wrote a scathing report about it in Nature.
The day the magazine article was published, the Congress rose as one, pointed at Farwell and collapsed in knee-slapping hilarity. Dyrenforth was last seen hitchhiking to Omaha.
A Whale Of A Tale
“It isn’t raining rain, you know, it’s raining violets.”---De Sylva
Who do you go to for help when a 45-foot, 8-ton sperm whale washes up on your beach dead? Officials in the Beaver State went to the Oregon State Highway Division, which might not have been the best idea. But hey, the stench was awful and nobody wanted to swim in waters reeking of whale runoff, so something had to be done. It’s not as though a fellow can run right down to the Department of Rotting Whale Corpses for a bit of largesse.
The idea of dragging the whale off and burying it was dismissed because decomposition gasses would destabilize the grave and uncover it. Nobody could be found to cut the thing up into small pieces and bury them. So being almost exclusively men, the Highway Department decided to dynamite the carcass using half-a-ton of product. A local military veteran with explosives training warned that half-a-ton was way too much but nobody listened.
The dynamite was placed beneath the whale primarily on the landward side so most of the carcass would get blown into the ocean. A large crowd had gathered to watch the shenanigans, but the Highway boys moved them back about a quarter-mile as a safety precaution. The onlookers let out a jolly cheer as the dynamite was detonated at 3:45 p.m. on November 12, 1970, but the cheers quickly turned to wide-eyed shrieks of panic when it became clear the authorities had greatly underestimated the blast zone and the safe distance from it. Everyone and everything within a half-mile of the explosion was showered with rotting whale carcass. A parked car was flattened with a huge piece of blubber while other vehicles and people were pelted by flying smithereens.
Alas, when the dust settled and the bombardment ceased, most of the whale had not budged. As darkness fell, Highway Division crews were back on the scene trying to bulldoze and bury the remains. The army vet who had tried to warn them stood on the beach, arms akimbo, and shook his head, exasperated. “In Oregon,” he said, ruefully, “there is no such thing as too much dynamite.”
The All-Stars Of Bad Planning
1. Mark Houghton. This depressed Liverpool soccer fan was found hanging by a leather belt from a hook in the kitchen of his home in Darwen, England by his girlfriend. He killed himself because his team trailed AC Milan at halftime 3-0 in the Champion League final. Once rid of Houghton, Liverpool rose up and scored 3 goals in the second half and got the victory on penalties. Nobody shouted, “This one’s for Mark!”
2. Muhammad bin Tughlug, Sultan of Delhi from 1325 to 1351, decided to move his capital from Delhi to Daulatabad in 1327. He insisted that all his subjects move with him and many died on the trip due to hunger and exhaustion. Things didn’t quite work out for Muhammad in Daulatabad so in 1333 he emulated Emily Litella, giggled “Never mind” and moved back.
3. Shah Muhammad the Second of Khwarezm. When the great and powerful Genghis Khan sent an envoy party to the Shah to strike up a trade deal, Muhammad locked them up and stole all their trade goods. A little ticked but eager to build bridges, Khan sent a second group, which was promptly executed. Oh-oh. One very irked Mongol invaded with 100,000 pissed-off warriors and wiped the Shah off the map. Surveying the battlefield detritus, Genghis Khan giggled “Never mind” and marched on.
4. Lockheed Martin or NASA (take your pick). NASA lost a $125 million Mars orbiter in 1999 because the Lockheed Martin engineering team in Colorado used metric units and the mission navigation team used English units for a key spacecraft operation. The findings of an internal review panel at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory illustrated that the failed information transfer scrambled commands for maneuvering the spacecraft to place it in orbit around Mars. Just as JPL Director Edward Stone and the boys raised their glasses in anticipation of the craft’s entry into Mars’ orbit, the navigation mistake pushed the spacecraft too close to the planet’s atmosphere, where it presumably burned and broke into pieces. “Oops,” said Director Eddie. “Nevermind.”
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
