RON SCHALOW: Three Blind Rodents And Other Things

Most semi-sentient Americans with an Internet connection, or a library card, knew that Donald Trump has been a lying criminal National Enquirer sleazebag for decades. What a surprise to find out that goober doesn’t have a little president’s hat. Or functional cap. It is an impressive collection of hats, though.

Every large inebriated polar bear I’ve ever met in a country bar was better socialized than this friends-in-low-places dick who can’t manage simple funeral etiquette or sit quietly during a photo op. Who knew that a dimwitted buffoon who washed out of the normally profitable casino business wasn’t qualified to run the country? Old butter bottom doesn’t even know what a tariff is. Tariff man won’t hurt you kids. Don’t touch him, though.

Speaking of dimwits, Kevin Cramer sure picked a big butt winner to draft behind for the p]ast year, and he’s still trying to run interference for the sociopath. I always take my grievances to KNOX for maximum effect, too.

“Our national mainstream media is pathetic,” Cramer said. “They’ve taken what is a First Amendment right that’s embedded in our Constitution … and they don’t see it as a privilege anymore to cover presidents and national politicians.”

Cramer added, “They’ve taken the right of a free press and turned it into a license to be obnoxious and it’s sickening. I hope at some point that some of our media friends, including several in North Dakota, take it upon themselves to do a little self-reflection of this First Amendment right that they abuse, in my view, and come to police themselves a little bit better.”

Cramer also said of the media, “Their relevance is diminishing with their own integrity.” — KNOX

Cramer has no integrity. I reflected on that. He’s the Waylon Smithers in this Mr. Monty Burns heavy episode of “Stupid President Tricks.” Release the hounds, Smithers. Put the kids in kennels and take their candy. Sticky little ankle babies. They’re very unproductive at our burning tires Trump branded factory.

Why does everyone expect the water to be clear and free of radiation? Maybe Homer will volunteer to be chief of staff since nobody else is stupid enough to try it. Or perhaps Peter Griffin would be a good fit in this cartoon catastrophe. He and DT wear the same size pants, which could come in handy considering the frothing of the mouth. Both of them.

Kevin was bound to say something stupid after the election, but he’s stayed pretty quiet. Tear gassing kids doesn’t bother him, so what’s there to complain about? But he just had to say something about the accurate coverage of the first funeral “President” Trump has been allowed to attend. He acted like Leonid Brezhnev at the 1968 Olympics. It was wicked hot in Los Angeles and Leo’s eyebrows kept drooping in front of eyes, which made him scowl at his hair care staff.

Wait until the subpoenas start flying, Mr. Cramer. If our inflatable senator-in-waiting wants to stand in front of that truck I’m reflected to pieces for that.

As for obnoxious, Trump has mild competition. President James Buchanan, aka “Ten-Cent Jimmy,” drunkenly rode a mule through a flock of Anglican nuns who were protesting the shortage of medicinal rum, and he was screaming, “Screw the Hudson’s Bay Co. Just buy them another pig. The dead one sure wasn’t worth a hundred bucks. It tasted a bit gamey and rancid after the three month trip by stage. Git, you mangy varmint. One penguin is getting away.” It was a one-off. Or so people have said. Buchanan is now our second worst president.

Of course, Rob Port, the lying king in the Forum’s stable of one high school grad, is in a funk. The Fresh Prince of Port-Air doesn’t have a seven Heidi Heitkamp headlines per day quota anymore, to puff up his baseless ego. He’s all unpuffed. “Something Happened in Mandan Where Heidi Heitkamp Lives and it Might Be Her Fault,” posts are going to get stale fast.

All Port has left are the six topics he thinks he knows something about, so it’s going to be a boring rotation in perpetuity. How is he going to make Trump and Cramer look good, while guards are tidying up prison cells, or just hosing them down with bleach? I have no idea how they do it.

Trump, Cramer and his Gilligan all deny science.

Other things

I used to know what most things were by looking at them. Now it’s just some. I click on Amazon ads just to find out what the hell the product is supposed to be. Shoes and towels, I have a handle on. But the Amazon algorithm evidently thinks I need a “Bob’s | Pallet Buster Tool in Yellow with 41-inch Long Handle — Deck Wrecker Pallet Tool Pry Bar, Deck Board Removal Tool.” Or maybe they think it would make a good stocking stuffer.

Pallets were hard to find by the dumpsters for some reason for some period of the last century. I would never destroy a pallet, as Amazon should know. I’m surprised when someone doesn’t need a pallet. I must have needed a few for something once and got obsessed. I know the health department was fussy about food stored on the floor. But now, we have tools specially made to destroy pallets, while the guy across the street is making them by the dozens in his garage.

You can now buy Charmin in rolls as big as those tough-to-carry round hay bales. I’m guessing that the large rolls increase usage, but I can’t prove it. As for hay bales, you can go to thehaymanager.com to join the “Square vs. Round Bales” debate. I used to chuck around rectangular ones, but I don’t think geometry is the issue.

Hay manager says, “Larger farming and ranching operations will require significantly greater amounts of hay. Large bales are best for these operations since they are the most economical.” That checks out. The pentagon-shaped bales are a pain in the ass. I think the hay master would agree.

I just got done not knowing what 4G meant and now I have to not know what 5G means. I’m surfing, or drifting, just fine on however many G’s I have, but I’m not eating up multiple G’s of bandwidth anyway.

It seems that a lot of people didn’t hear things at specific times and they turn it into a “whatabout.” “I didn’t hear any outrage when Franklin Pierce was flying all over the world in that wood-burning contraption he called the ‘carrier pigeon,’ due to its ability to perch under bridges. I’ll bet you didn’t care how much carbon that wafted into the atmosphere when your savior Frank fired up the old-growth oak then, didja?”

Unfortunately, more people in the United States know the definitions of malignant narcissistic, misogynist and xenophobe than ever before. Also alternate facts, facts aren’t facts, extreme antisocial personality disorder, emoluments and etc. Ghosting is something. I think maybe the opposite of stalking.

By the time I found out I had a core, that ship had sailed. Thanks for nothing, Jack LaLanne. When the surgeon cut out my angry gallbladder and beat it into submission, he didn’t say, “That piece of your core isn’t going to bother you anymore, sport.” Actually, he snipped and ran. No sharing of quirky wisdom. I had nowhere to send a “thanks for not killing me” card. If you find one, hold on to it. They’re worth a fortune. I think there is a good market for cards like that. Not my problem.

Last week, Sir Franklin Pierce’s mellifluous voice, plus video, taught me about the tuskfish. It pokes around for clams and mollusks, grabs one between its tusks, heads home and smashes the shell against its favorite rock (a tool). It bends its body away from the boulder and then flings the clam against the stone.

Having a light schedule, the fish will do this as many times as it takes to crack the shell and get to the juicy insides. How it gets any velocity on the clam, even at a short distance through the water, I have no idea. I guess tuskfish watchers have known about Tusky for a few years, so bully for them.

Dave also showed me a Bobbit worm. They are about as long as your arm, if it measures a meter, and as big around as a skinny 6-year-old’s leg. With no brain or eyes, they hide in a hole, cover their dangerous end with sand, and wait for a small fish to saunter by, looking cocky, and WHAM!

If I, as a fish, had witnessed such a violent murder, I would mark the area with neon or put up an electric fence. But No. Even after that horrid scene, smartass teen fish taunt the prehistoric creature by blowing the sand off the worm’s camouflage and it gets one or two of them, too. Go play on the highway, if you need a rush, you foolish scaly kids.

Remember when tracheostomies were all the rage? On TV, I mean. Or movies. Every medical drama or off-duty doctor was puncturing a person’s throat and sticking in some sort of tube so that the afflicted one could breathe. It may have started with Radar O’Reilly. He and Father Mulcahy were transporting a wounded soldier on a cot straddled across the back of their Jeep and strapped tight.

Suddenly, the soldier begins to gasp for air. They stop the vehicle and radio the MASH camp for guidance. Hawkeye got on the horn to talk them through it. In the end, Radar ends up using his pocket knife to do the cutting and the Father finds a pen with a hollow end to stick in the opening, providing an air passage. The young man breathes and it was trach city on the screen. They’re still a favorite procedure.

Now, the medical TV shows, besides being more graphic, have doctors spending more time sticking big needles into patient’s chests and drawing fluid away from the heart and sticking tubes into a lung or the abdomen to drain excessive blood. Very popular.

And subdural hematomas always need the pressure relieved by drilling a hole in the skull, but just far enough, so the surgeon needs to be sober. Last week on “Chicago Med,” a big Black & Decker with a battery pack got used on a comatose guy in a dusty old warehouse, as if the procedure needed to be spiced up for the audience. Lots of things happen in Chicago. “Chicago Plumbing” is next, I hear. Another Wolf production.

Plus, you don’t have to Call the Midwives to watch the delivery of breech babies, although the Nuns do it with more flair under poor conditions. The hard births are always anxiety filled. Sister Evangelina is a professional bowler in her real life. Probably.

Backward babies? Still? I can only assume that humans are not done evolving. We’re not close to being puncture- resistant. Everything that comes out of our body smells terrible. That doesn’t seem necessary. We can’t even outrun a hippopotamus, which would be bad news if there were hippos around here.

Hippos in North Dakota would be constantly pissed off and packed into warm hotel pools. Your noodle thing is gone now, Jeffy. C’mon, we’re going out to eat, anyway, so get dressed. I don’t see why those big jerks have to use the hot tub besides hogging the pinball machine. There’s a comment card coming after we check out, that’s for darn sure. Nobody told us these cranky sumo wannabes were having a convention this weekend. Don’t say anything about that lifeguard, OK Jeff?

Speaking of hippos. Pablo Escobar used his drug money to bring exotic animals to his huge compound in Colombia, including four hippos. Pablo is dead, but his hippopotamus collection has grown to 50 and they do pretty much as they please, wherever they please. Nobody has been killed by one yet, which is a body count that doesn’t come close to Escobar’s 7,000 murders, but the chubby mammals make some people nervous.

In their natural habitats in Africa, droughts make life more difficult for the hippo population and some members don’t make it. But between Medellín and Bogotá, there’s plenty of water and food year round. Hippo heaven. Fun fact: They chew on crocodiles to relieve stress.

“‘Nuff said.” I hope that little nugget of a smug phrase expires before I do.

At some, or many, points during an NFL telecast, the former player turned color analyst will say:
“You can’t do (one of 5,000 unhelpful things) in this league and expect to win.” Dropping the ball and every other obvious unhelpful thing.

On a personal note

Somewhere near 53 years ago, I sucked it up, stood and nominated Jamie Mal****taris, a girl, to be fourth-grade class president. She was a dark-haired vixen, who I assume came from the Greek Island of Salamina.

To my mind, this was tantamount to a marriage proposal. The wedding never materialized, though, and I’m beginning to lose hope. Waiting one more year won’t hurt.

Of course, I was also in love with both of my second-grade teachers, so my mind wasn’t pure when Jamie tied my pancreas into knots. She may have pegged me for a player. Anyway, the first middle-aged 22 years old disappeared over the Christmas break, evidently marrying some flighty beatnik and breaking my heart. No. 2 healed my heart, but I had to leave her behind to further my education. She got over it.


I don’t want to hear any blind guys bragging about the great economy when working people need help to get enough food for their kids. Or when sick people need a Gofundme to pay health care bills.

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