Meyers And Sons

It is August in Miami. That means hot humid weather. It’s in the low 80s when you wake up and still in the 90s when you’re ready to call it a day. It also rains every day. August is right in the middle of hurricane season, but our luck has held; the Caribbean has been mighty calm so far this year. But we get rain and when it rains, it comes down thick and hard with plenty of lighting and thunder to make sure it gets your attention. It rolls in fast on the wings of a western wind that drops the temperature ten degrees in sixty seconds, dumps rain by the buckets for 10 minutes, then bang, its gone; the sky clears and the sun quickly turns the wetness into a miserable outdoor sauna. It happens every afternoon. Sometimes twice.

Joe Meyers ran a paint store across the street from where I then had studio. He sold house paint, the Sherwood Williams kind. He also sold all the accoutrements you’d need to paint a room or a house: brushes, rollers, ladders – stuff like that. If you ever wondered where painters get their nifty white painters outfits, they get them at places like Joe’s. Pants and coveralls made from a heavy white canvas material, T-shirts with the ‘Sherwood Williams’ logo on the back in bright green ink, and white hats that looked like baseball caps someone squared in right angles with a pair of scissors. I asked him why painters wore white outfits since you figured anybody worth their salt in spreading pain around was bound to get some on their head or legs or arms. Joe didn’t know. What he did know was that your pro painters wore clean white clothes every day which meant their stuff got washed a lot which, in turn, meant they wore out fairly quickly. Joe said his biggest selling item was the white pants.

The store was called Meyers and Sons Paint. Joe was the one and only son. His father, also named Joe, started the business when Joe was a toddler. That was right after WWII ended in 1945. North Miami was still mostly sand and swamp then but Miami developers had started building north in the early 1940s. The war stopped things for three years but by 1946, subdivisions were exploding all over Miami’s northern suburbs. Joe senior built his store in what was then a tiny little strip mall and waited for suburbia to catch up to him. It didn’t take long. When it did, he was ready to sell them some paint. The sign went up when Joe was born. Joe’s dad must have figured he would have a brother or two before it was all over but it didn’t happen. Joe had a sister, who was born two years after he was; after that, no more little Meyers.

There was never a question in either of the Joes’ minds on what Joe Jr. would do when he graduated from High School. He would work in the store and eventually take it over from daddy. He did too. His father formally turned the store over to him in the late 80s. Joe senior was in his late 60s by then and thought he wanted to finally take some time off and travel around the country with Joe’s mother. The travelling bug didn’t bite too long. Whether his dad tired of the travel or his mother tired of his dad, Joe wasn’t sure. But Joe senior was back in the store within six months helping at the cash register, dusting shelves, and sitting in the back office drinking coffee with some of the old painters. He was there every day the store was open up until the week before he died in 1993. He loved the store; he loved his son cared about it as much as he did. His only disappointment was he had no grandson – Joe junior and his wife, Thelma, had no children.

I moved into the area in 1991. Joe was in his early fifties; daddy in seventies. I never bought a lot of paint there; maybe a half a dozen quarts over the twenty years I knew him. In fact the first time I met him was when I was walking back from the corner deli with a sandwich and one of those August downpours hit and I high tailed it to the closest shelter which was the awning the covered the front of Meyers and Sons Paint store. Joe had also been out there people watching when the storm blew through. He said then what I was to hear again at least a thousand times – “Your skin is waterproof you know. People don’t seem to understand that.” Standing under the awning, I could see what he meant. There were people completely soaked zigzagging up the street as if running in angles would somehow make them a smaller target for the rain drops. There were mothers under giant umbrellas walking up the sidewalk with a clutch of kids clinging to their waists. And then the little old Jewish couples in long sleeve slickers that hung below their knees walking patiently though rain with the same cadence they would when the weather was clear and dry. They dressed like that no matter the weather. I had learned long ago that old people in Miami – and there are a lot of them – somehow lost their ability to absorb warmth from the sun as they aged. They walk around on the hottest days in long sleeves and a jacket. When the evening temperature dropped into the 80s, they usually don a sweater too.

Mr. Butterfield On His Evening Walk Yesterday – It Was 92° Outside.

Joe and I got to be good friends. He always had a pot of bad coffee on the hot plate in the back room office and most mornings, I’d stop by after he opened to sip a cup with him before the morning started. By the time I knew him, there was a Sears store a couple of miles west in Opa-locka that sold pain a lot cheaper than Joe did so most of his business was with pro guys who bought paint by the five gallon bucket and had been buying from Joe or his daddy for years and years. These guys were dying out but there still were enough of them to keep the place going. And that was nice. Joe might not have sold a lot of paint in the neighborhood but it was convenient to be able to buy a paint brush or roller refills right around where you lived instead of having to trek all the way to Opa-locka. Plus the store had turpentine and for whatever reason, Joe sold a lot of that in the neighborhood. Joe said it was a good cockroach killer. He might have been right; lord knows we had tons and tons of cockroaches.

Joe closed the shop eight years ago in 2010. He was seventy two. I never met Thelma. They had a two bedroom bungalow down in Miami Shores. Joe and Thelma had been married for 26 years when the shop closed. They tried to have a kids Joe told me, but they couldn’t. He didn’t say why.

A carry-out open up in the store’s space in 2012. It last three years but lost their beer license for selling to minors. It has been empty ever since. The awning still covers the store front. The deli is still on the corner and I go there almost every day for coffee or a snack. Yesterday I was walking back when the skies opened up with drenching rain. I made it under the awnings without hardly a drop hitting me. Then I heard “Your skin is waterproof you know.” And walked across the street.


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A Fortune In Rocks

By Guest Contributor Ping Pong Wilson

Mo Brooks Talking Rocks With Ted Cruz

In May, the House Committee on Science, Space and Technology held hearings on rising ocean levels allegedly caused by global climate warming. Mo Brooks, a senior member of the committee and a Representative of the great state of Alabama, questioned Phillip Duffy on his view of what’s causing the ocean to rise. Mr. Duffy, who is president of Woods Hole Research Center, offered usual liberal mumbo jumbo of how fossil fuels were raising the temperature of the atmosphere. He didn’t know who he was playing with. Rep. Brooks is no dummy. He has extensive knowledge in science and had done a little research of his own.

Philip Duffy Lectures At Green For All Institute – A George Soros Front Organization For ‘Progressive’ Climate Change

Looking across the table at the scientist, Rep. Brooks said, “Mr. Duffy, have you guys ever considered rocks or dirt falling into the ocean? Every time you have that soil or rock whatever it is that is deposited into the seas, that forces the sea levels to rise. Because now you’ve got less space in those oceans because the bottom is moving up.” 

Duffy was silent, completely flummoxed. Brooks pointed to the White Cliffs of Dover and to California “where you have the waves crashing against the shorelines” and “you have the cliffs crash into the sea. All of that displaces the water which forces it to rise, does it not?” Brooks asked. 

OUCH!! – Imagine This Times Billions Of Rocks

Duffy waffled by stating he didn’t think there would be enough falling rocks to have an effect. It was clear he really had no clue about it at all.

Shortly after reading this exchange, we started Googling research on rocks and ocean levels. Mo Brooks was right; scientists have completely ignored one of the most common occurrences on earth – rocks falling in the ocean – and the global rise in sea levels.

The English Are Destroying The World

This, of course, is simply another example of George Soros and his international tangle of agitprop organizations working to undermine American and its coal and oil industries. Listen to Hillary Clinton or Angela Merkel or any CNN commentator and it’s all big oil or dirty coal or SUVs that are heating up the planet and flooding Miami beach. Just about every university in the world gets millions of dollars from Soros or Gates or Bezos to ‘prove’ this claptrap. But Mo Brooks, using physic principles so simple that even a child could understand, latched onto the real reason ocean levels are rising. And nobody was looking at it.

No one – no government, university or business group – is researching what causes rocks to fall into the ocean, the impact when they do and, most importantly, how to stop or at least slow down the rate in which they fall. Yet the United States government is spending billions – 211 billion in 2017 alone – on research on environmental issues like climate change, fossil fuel emissions and weather research. You read that number right – 211 billion last year.

Who in the government decides where that 211 billion gets spent? Why it’s the House of Representatives Committee on Science, Space and Technology that’s who. And who on that committee would really like to encourage research on why rocks fall in the ocean – the senior Representative of Alabama, Mo Brooks. The need is obvious. We have created the solution. Here is the plan:

Last month, we incorporated a new research institute whose mission will be to assess damage of falling rocks to our oceans, develop tools to reduce or eliminate falling rock damage and create the capability to start removing rocks from the ocean floor. It’s called The American Falling Rock Research Organization, AFR²O.

AFR²O will become a massive organization and it will need money, a lot of money to achieve its goals. But as Rep. Brooks clearly noted, science has missed the boat on climate change and the time has come to invest in real solutions to fix a problem that could devastate cities around the world. Why should we let Singapore slip beneath the waves of the Indian Ocean or allow sharks to freely roam through the streets of downtown Miami? It will be expensive, but all this ocean rising nonsense can be stopped once we understand why rocks fall into the ocean and start taking them back out.

Our initial effort will be to identify the major causes of why rocks weaken and crash. We estimate that it will take about 500 million for that research to be completed. With another couple of billion, we can start a program to strengthen the most vulnerable rock areas and freeze their impact on ocean levels. After that, we begin reclamation. That will be a long expensive process; but that is where the money is in terms of saving earth’s major coastal populations.

AFR²O’s Initial Research On How Rocks Fall

That’s the plan. Right now, we are looking for five partners to ante up 10 million each to establish AFR²O’s Washington DC office and write first set of grant proposals. We should get our first 500 million in 2020, the second a year after that and then the real money starts to come in. Our business model shows a market cap of over 10 billion dollars for AFR²O sometime around 2024; that’s when we take the company public. Anyone to sticks 10 million in now will see that multiplied at least 20 times in four years.

Some Preventative Steps Are Simple

Some Complex (Preliminary Engineering Sketch – Dover Retaining Wall)

The dynamics of rising oceans is not some esoteric secret. It is simply one rock, two rocks, three rocks and on and on. The solution is just as simple. Generations of scientists have deliberately ignored literally the ground on which they walk upon because of ideology based ignorance and a misguided belief that demonizing fossil fuels will allow George Soros to put his puppets in the White House. It didn’t work in 2016 and it won’t work now. We have brave men and women like Mo Brooks to thank for that. But now we have to pay the piper and the AFR²O to restore nature’s balance in the world.

If you don’t have 10 million dollars, you can still help. Mo Brooks is on our side. We need to get the rest of his colleagues to join us too. Their names and emails are below. Write to them. Tell them you how you will contribute to their campaigns if they start helping to get the rocks out of the oceans rather than trusting the rocks in Philip Duffy’s head.

The House Committee on Science, Space and Technology, 115th Congress, Members

Lamar Smith, Texas, Chair

Dana Rohrabacher,

Frank Lucas, Oklahoma,

Mo Brooks, Alabama

Randy Hultgren, Illinois

Bill Posey, Florida

Thomas Massie, Kentucky

Eddie Bernice Johnson, Texas, Ranking Member

Zoe Lofgren, California

Dan Lipinski, Illinois

Suzanne Bonamici, Oregon

Ami Bera, California

Elizabeth Esty, Connecticut

Marc Veasey, Texas

Don Beyer, Virginia, Vice Ranking Member

Jacky Rosen, Nevada

Jerry McNerney, California

Ed Perlmutter, Colorado

Paul Tonko, New York

Bill Foster, Illinois wfoster@house.gove

Lamar Smith, Texas, Chair

Dana Rohrabacher,

Frank Lucas, Oklahoma,

Mo Brooks, Alabama

Randy Hultgren, Illinois

Bill Posey, Florida

Thomas Massie, Kentucky



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How To Build An Atomic Bomb

Ralph’s simple atom bomb recipe.

Building an atomic bomb that you can shoot across the Pacific Ocean on a ballistic missile takes a lot of work. But if all you’re going to do is clear some bush out in the country, you can make this simple atomic bomb in a matter of hours!

The Secret Is In the Black-Eyed Peas

Ingredients you will need:

2 four quart metal mixing bowls

4 lbs of uncooked black-eyed peas

1.5 lbs of enriched uranium (or 1 lb plutonium if available)

(Can’t find enough enriched uranium? see our recipe “How to Enrich Uranium The Easy Way” )

5,000 firecrackers (approximately 1 lb black powder when unwrapped)

2 lbs of Silly Putty®

1 roll of duct tape

1 box cutter

30 feet of #3 string

8oz Zippo® lighter fluid

1 9×13 baking pan

2 large plastic mixing bowls

Approximate Prep Time: Two Hours

Yield – 1 Megaton


  1. Divide the Silly Putty® into thirds. Put aside two of the pieces. Place the remaining piece into one of the plastic bowls and mix in the uranium quickly and thoroughly. Form into a ball, approximately six inches in diameter.
  2. When finished put the bowl in the refrigerator, oven or any convenient metal box.
  3. Inside of each firecracker is about .1 oz of black powder. With the box cutter, slice open each of the firecrackers and empty its black powder into the other plastic bowl. Discard fuses, wrappers, etc.
  4. Knead the black powder into the remaining two pieces of Silly Putty® for five minutes or until the black powder is evenly distributed.
  5. Smooth the Silly Putty® mixture evenly into the 9×13 baking pan.
  6. Take the uranium ball and place it in the middle of the baking pan. Quickly wrap the sheet of black powder Silly Putty® around it to form another, larger, ball.
  7. Cut a four foot piece of # 3 string from the roll. Push one end of the string at least half way through the Silly Putty® ball.
  8. Pour 1 lb of black-eyed peas into one of the 4 quart mixing bowls. Take the Silly Putty® ball and place it on top of the peas. Cover the ball with more black-eyed peas until the bowl is nearly full. Leave the remaining piece of string looped over the edge of the bowl.
  9. Pour five oz of Zippo®lighter fluid evenly around the black-eyed peas.
  10. Now cover the bowl with a sheet of plastic wrap. The plastic wrap should be large enough to extend over the edges of the mixing bowl by at least an inch. Near the edge on one side of the bowl, make a ¼ inch hole in the plastic wrap and pull the string through. Pull the wrap snugly over the rest of the bowl and secure it to the sides of the bowl with duct tape. Again, make a ¼ inch hole in the duct tape to pull the string through. It is important NOT to tape the string to the side of the mixing bowl. Ensure the string hangs freely through the hole in the duct tape.
  11. Fill the second four quart mixing bowl with black-eyed peas. Cover with plastic wrap and secure it in place with duct tape.
  12. Lay each mixing bowl on its side and carefully duct tape the bowls together, the mouth of one bowl to the mouth of the other. Work the string around the duct tape so that it remains exposed. You will now have one large eight quart spherical container.
  13. Double or triple wrap everything up with more duct tape. Make sure to leave the string hanging freely.
  14. Tie the remaining #3 string to the piece of string that goes into the Silly Putty® ball.

You are pretty much done. The big duct taped metal sphere you have is an atomic bomb. But don’t worry. It is harmless until you activate the fuse.

Ralph’s Hint: Make them two at a time. It doesn’t take much more time and you’ll be surprised how quickly you’ll use them up.

Getting your bomb ready to explode is simple. Take the bomb to where ever you want to set it off. Remember, this is an ATOMIC Bomb – it makes a big bang. Ensure there are no children or pets about. Watch out for windy conditions that could carry radiation where you don’t want it to go.

Once your bomb is in place, unroll the string so the end of it is at least twenty feet from the bomb. Liberally squirt the remaining Zippo® lighter fluid along the length of the string. It will not take much before it is thoroughly doused. Then simply light the end of the string with a match. Run.


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Last Stand On The Oche – Eric Bristow

Golf, bowling and darts: America’s everyman sports. Well maybe not darts in this country but the other two for sure. Anyone can do them. You don’t need to be an athlete; you don’t need expensive equipment. You don’t even have to be particularly skilled to have fun. They all came from England with our pre-revolutionary war forefathers.

Another thing about the three games is they are not actual sports. That embitters some of their more serious players to know end. But assuming you have two legs and at least one arm, you anyone can play them regardless of how obese, old or uncoordinated they are. If you don’t believe me, drive down to a local golf course on a week day afternoon and watch 70 year old ladies lugging their little oxygen carriers around from putting green to putting green. Golf requires you swing your arm 70 times in a four hour period, walk to and from an electric cart each time you swing your arm and periodically sip beer using the arm you aren’t swinging at the ball with. Donald Trump, who can’t walk up a path in Italy without nearly passing out, can play 18 holes of golf and still have the energy to pat some asses in the clubhouse. The average golfer’s caloric intake from the beer during a typical round far exceeds any burned through in an afternoon’s play. You can make the same argument with bowling and darts.

Beer is the twine that binds the games together though the part it plays varies by game. Golfers have to bring their own beer and since it is an English tradition that players stand upright through the whole game, its consumption is usually modest – a six pack a player a round is the common club rule. Bowling thrives on the stuff. Building a bowling alley is an excuse to build a bar. Beer Frames, Pitcher Perfect, Strikes and Splits – these are all time honored bowling traditions for guzzling brew at the alley. Remaining upright is optional going into the third game – that’s when most bowlers swear they bowl their best – their arms are finally relaxed and legs loose. Typically bowling nights end with a detailed post mortem of game strategy, plunkered balls and cheating over burgers and more beer.

Darts makes no pretense that a drink or two is incidental to the game. Darts is a drinking game. You play it in bars. You play it with dart in your right hand and a beer in your left when it isn’t holding a cigarette. Lose a game, chug a beer. Win a game, chug a beer. Waiting to play a game, chug a beer. It makes no difference. If you’re a darter, you’re a drinker.

Name any of the world’s top five bowlers (Dick Weber and Earl Anthony don’t count – they have both been dead for 20 years).

Darters. We don’t have real darters in the U.S. But England has them. They have lots of them and they are real good. Popular too – darters a better known in England than NASCAR drivers are in the U.S. They are certainly more popular than pro golfers and bowlers. (Though nobody knows any pro bowlers do they? (Hint, hint – the top four bowlers in the world aren’t even Americans. Betcha even Trump didn’t know that one or we’d be doing some serious bowling alley building in this country.))

Everyone knows the top dart players in England. They are on cable TV just as much a basketball players are over here. There are dozens of darting franchises organized into darting leagues which play each other in games for league championships which end up in inter-league championships which lead to world championships (very similar to our baseball’s world championships – only played by the British franchises that organized it).

That is why the U.K. is experiencing a time of somber mourning right now. Last Thursday, Eric Bristow, England’s most revered darter (think Babe Ruth, Mohammad Ali, or Michael Jordan) died at the young age of 60. He died with his boots on. He was in Liverpool as a celebrity host at a Premier League event in Echo Arena. He suffered a heart attack midway through the games and died immediately.

Eric Bristow in Liverpool prior to the start of the Premier League games.

Bristow was not the U.K.’s first dart world champion. He didn’t he hold that crown the longest. If you look at his stats compared to say Phil Taylor or Jockey Wilson, he wasn’t the best well rounded player either. But what Eric did have was wondrous charisma and great timing. He broke into the game in the late 1970s just as British TV was searching for any sport and any player that they could splash on the evening telly and grab an audience. Eric Bristow did that. His was boisterous, sassy, and fast on his feet. They nicknamed him the Crafty Cockney both for his ability to confuse opponents on the oche and his cocky panache. Born in the Hackney area of southeast London, he was about as cockney as you could get. He mixed charm and humor with the instincts of a street fighter; he had the face of a Dickinson street urchin grown adult – a round head that framed a full mouth of jutting gapping English teeth. When he smiled – and he loved to smile – he glowed. When he laughed, everyone around him gleamed in a piece of his halo.

Eric Bristow in the early 1980s.

Eric Bristow dominated the sport from 1978 through the late 1980s. But in late 1987, he developed a throwing condition called Dartitis that prevented him from controlling his throw/release. Dartitis is like Yips – a mental block a person develops that stops them from doing something they routinely excel. Eric spent the next 10 years trying to overcome Dartitis. He regained is control from time to time but it never lasted very long so he turned to what most jocks do when their playing days are over – he became a TV commentator. His network was SKY.

Bristow worked for SKY from 1990 through most of 2016 when he was sacked for texts he sent ridiculing some victims of a British soccer coach pedophile. It was Eric being Eric. He apologized quickly but you could tell he was trying to figure out why. (He basically said that instead of the victims waiting for 20 years to go to the police with their accusations they should have just beat the fucker up as soon as they were old enough.)

Eric at Jocky Wilson’s funeral. Pimping Harrow Darts. Jocky would have understood.

Eric wrote an autobiography in 2010. His basic message was that he lived a good life, had no regrets. He was what he was.

‘I never drink before a game.’

A commentator once asked Eric if he ever drank during league play. ‘Never’ said Eric. ‘Oh, I’d have one or two pints to loosen up before the first round but that was it until the game ended’. One or two pints didn’t count as drinking to Eric. He said he usually had 10 to 12 pints on average every day between tea time and closing time. The man liked his drink – a couple of pints before a game was nothing.

Eric was a heavy smoker and had a fondness for curry. ‘I should be dead by now,’ he wrote in the autobiography. And eight years later he was. Watching darts and sipping Guinness. He wrote that script.

Eric Bristow 1957 – 2018

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The Germans Are Joking

“In Buddhist metaphysics, there is the idea of ’emptiness.’ To realize the emptiness of things is to say, ‘This is neither real nor nonexistent.’ Our perception of the candle refers to something real, in the real world. But this candle – the one we see – it’s mental content. And yet it’s also not true that the experience, the model in our minds, is unreal. It’s ’empty.’ ‘Empty’ may have been their way of saying that it’s just a virtual model. ‘Emptiness’ could be ‘virtuality.'” Thomas Metzinger, the German philosopher, to Joshua Rothman over coffee at a table lit by a candle discussing virtual reality, The New Yorker, 2 April 2018.


Thomas Metzinger, Professor of Theoretical Philosophy, Johannes Gutenberg University of Mainz – Looking Very German

I know what you’re asking – did ‘real’ philosophy die with Ortega y Gasset in the middle of the last century? Is the mumbo jumbo of Thomas Metzinger any different than the nonsense that Peter Sloterdijk repeats in book after book (60(!!) so far) then the ethical fairy tales Thomas Pogge weaves around morality between diddling students? Ortega likely would have said ‘of course the candle is real – its light illuminates the table which my eyes perceive, the flame flickers in the same breeze that also waifs my face; should I touch the flame (which because it is real, I do not), my fingers will burn and blister. ‘Mental content’? More like neo-Kantian crap a la Metzinger. The added slam at Gautama Buddha is gratuitous. Though I am sure the Buddha would have much to say about virtual reality were he ever asked, ’emptiness’ would be the adjective he’d apply to the head inside the helmet, not to the virtual reality experience. I suspect he might add dullard somewhere in his description as well.

Joshua Rothman Demonstrating Practical Philosophy with the German V.R. Rig.

Rothman was too much of a boner to say anything of substance of Metzinger’s profound insight. He called it neither gobbledygook nor trenchant insight. Instead, he simply changed the subject and went on to describe how the experiences he had in the Virtual Reality laboratory earlier in the day fucked up his mind. He was being paid, of course, to write a sympathetic story about Thomas Metzinger. Let his editor take a crack at adding a clarification sentence if she dared (and she didn’t).

So this is how the whole thing happened: The New Yorker sends Joshua Rothman out to write on the current state of virtual reality. This is the New Yorker so we are talking to academia researchers, not the guys from Google or Microsoft or Apple who are productizing the technology. Somebody says, “Go to Germany. That’s where it’s happening.” and so he does. He finds a lab that has V.R. helmets, robots, AND Thomas Metzinger all in the same place. The Germans strap him in a helmet and start playing with his mind big time. Then he has cake and coffee with Tom (please, just call me Thomas). Eight thousand words of polished prose result. And that’s exactly what the publisher ordered. The story reads great. Dr. Metzinger gets another citation. When you finish the eight thousand word read, you sigh. Thirty minutes of your life now ’empty’. The Buddha would have called in endless suffering.

Gautama Buddha in the Buddha Helmet© Rig.



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Killer Dads

I was walking my dogs up Fulton St. last week. We were nearing the intersection where Fulton runs into Blue Fin Drive. There is a Chipotle on the corner. Their parking lot takes most of the block going down Fulton.

In the parking lot, a Dad was helping two little girls out of their Suburban. It was jet black. The girls looked to be between 7 and 12 years old. Good old Dad was taking them into Chipotle’s for lunch. My first reaction was Jesus Christ. You are going to kill those kids!!

If the Tomatoes Don’t Kill Ya, the Servers Will.

Yea, it is alright for adults to eat at Chipotle’s, at least now that they started washing the vegetables and allow a tad of antibiotics in the chicken. Servers still don’t get paid sick days so there are always a few of them snuffling around the serving line but this is Miami – our colds are mild and the flu rare. So if you are an adult, you basically are dealing with the usual Chipotle menu of bacteria and virus that, if you have lived to make to 30, you are probably immune to. But not little kids. They’ve had their exposure to day care and elementary school bugs but, unless they were raised in a strict vegetarian or vegan kitchen at home, they don’t have the resistance to the likes of infections that lurk in a Chipotle’s restaurant.

A Dad should know these things. I bet the two girl’s mother wouldn’t be caught dead bringing in a kid to Chipotle’s. Too dangerous. The mom can ingest the critters that lived in the tomatoes that graced her burrito but the worst she’ll get is some slimy shit the next day (face it, we all look forward to the natural laxative a meal at Chipotle’s supplies). But kids – Come on!

Dumb, Dumber and Dumber

I was tempted to say something to the guy but then I thought, he is driving a Suburban. So he is not dumb. (There was a GMC Yukon parked three spaces over. It’s the same car priced $10,000 more because it has ‘GMC ‘in big big letters on the grill. Unless the Yukon owner was spectacularly stupid, he would have known that. He didn’t. BUT – he is smarter than the Escalade owner who bought the EXACT same car as the Suburban but paid at least $15,000 for it (or for the big Cadillac shield on the grill), proving P.T. Barnum’s dictum that nobody ever went broke underestimating the stupidity of an American. There were no Escalades in the Chipotle parking lot. But this is the north side of Miami. I’m not sure we get a lot of Escalade owners here unless their packing side arms and Rottweilers.)

I wanted to scream “Take them down the street to the McDonalds. Nobody gets sick there!” But I didn’t. Seriously, when is the last time anybody got E. Coli poisoning at a McDonalds? 1988, you can look it up. And Chipotle? 2017 but 2018 just started so give them a chance.

Dads want to be good fathers and good fathers want their kids to eat something they like but something that is good for them too. That’s a tall order. I guess if you drive a Suburban, Chipotle’s makes all the sense in the world. Can’t explain the Yukon guy though – would have guessed he’d be more into big burgers slathered in bacon and Velveeta. Maybe he came for the queso.

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