Random Bidtits (3/13/2018)

Nothing but entertaining photos today:

…Happy International Women’s Day!

And finally, my first impression of the authors of this study is that they would’ve fit in better at DePaul.


Song of the Day (1/19/2018)

Happy Friday, my esteemed readers and contributors. Today’s song of the day is Let My Love Open the Door by Pete Townshend. It’s a positive, catchy little toe-tapper.

Keeping the positive vibe going, here are some things the Disillusioned Dilettante doesn’t value, appreciate, or even like: investigative journalism, marching bands, modern art, local news, art. Investigative journalist is a concept best left for the 19th century and I’m sick and tired of eating a regular diet of Fake News’ shinbone.

Speaking of my misplaced negativity and alarmism, has anyone else been to weather.com lately? These MOFOs use the “weather alert” feature almost as aggressively as the Bush/Cheney Corporation used the “terror alert.” Between the two, the level of alarmism is truly on par.

I’ll leave you with a final thought for your Friday, and I apologize if I’ve mused about this in a prior post: when they perform LASIK eye surgery, why don’t they give people 20/10 vision? Or perhaps even better? Why do they “correct” people to a mere 20/20?

Happy Friday and stay safe tonight – always remember to wrap it before you slap it.

Song of the Day and Random Bidtits (1/11/2018)

Today, it’s Twistin’ the Night Away by Sam Cooke. Excellent, excellent song. Let’s see, what else is new. Our dear friend and occasional contributor Arch Stanton shared a raving review for the following book:


I came across a Matt Lauer lookalike in the top right of the following:


Matt’s finally on the other end of the finger. Speaking of which, I hold firm that Trump never made those comments about Arianne Zucker on that coach bus. He probably wouldn’t even recognize here. Shit, Trump wouldn’t be able to finger her in a police lineup. What else. Turns out Bannon actually is a Nazi spy:


Nazi spy. Campaign architect. Breitbart editor. Jesus, this guy’s flexible. Not much else going on. Currently heading into the office after dropping a malodorous morning deuce that left me erratically stumbling about like Herman Munster.

What else. Earlier this week I was listening in on a coworker’s conversation about a PowerPoint presentation where I unthinkingly blurted out “thank you for saying ‘sub-bullets’ instead of ‘minority bullets'”. There was a black person in the room.


All of this reminds me of some wise words that our dear friend and often commentator Ethan Edwards shared with me: bacteria in a nutrient-rich environment (a Petri dish) expands until it chokes on its own waste products. This blog is feeling a lot like that Petri dish.

Enjoy your Thursday!


Article: A Message to Garcia by Elbert Hubbard

A Message to Garcia by Elbert Hubbard (1899)

In all this Cuban business there is one man stands out on the horizon of my memory like Mars at perihelion.

When war broke out between Spain and the United States, it was very necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia was somewhere in the mountain fastnesses of Cuba – no one knew where. No mail or telegraph could reach him. The President must secure his co-operation, and quickly.

What to do!

Someone said to the President, “There’s a fellow by the name of Rowan will find Garcia for you, if anybody can.”

Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How “the fellow by name of Rowan” took the letter, sealed it up in an oil-skin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and having delivered his letter to Garcia, are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail. The point I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask, “Where is he at?”

By the Eternal! There is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college in the land. It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this or that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies; do the thing – “carry a message to Garcia!”

General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias. No man, who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed, but has been well-nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man – the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it.

Slipshod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, and half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook or crook, or threat, he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or mayhap, God in His goodness performs a miracle, and sends him an Angel of Light for an assistant.

You, reader, put this matter to a test: You are sitting now in your office—six clerks are within your call. Summon any one and make this request: “Please look in the encyclopedia and make a brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Corregio.”

Will the clerk quietly say, “Yes, sir,” and go do the task?

On your life, he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye, and ask one or more of the following questions: Who was he? Which encyclopedia? Where is the encyclopedia? Was I hired for that? Don’t you mean Bismarck? What’s the matter with Charlie doing it? Is he dead? Is there any hurry? Shan’t I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself? What do you want to know for?

And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the questions, and explained how to find the information, and why you want it, the clerk will go off and get one of the other clerks to help him find Garcia – and then come back and tell you there is no such man. Of course I may lose my bet, but according to the Law of Average, I will not.

Now if you are wise you will not bother to explain to your “assistant” that Corregio is indexed under the C’s, not in the K’s, but you will smile sweetly and say, “Never mind,” and go look it up yourself. And this incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift, are the things that put pure socialism so far into the future. If men will not act for themselves, what will they do when the benefit of their effort is for all?

A first mate with knotted club seems necessary; and the dread of getting “the bounce” Saturday night holds many a worker in his place.

Advertise for a stenographer, and nine times out of ten who apply can neither spell nor punctuate – and do not think it necessary to.

Can such a one write a letter to Garcia?

“You see that bookkeeper,” said the foreman to me in a large factory.

“Yes, what about him?”

“Well, he’s a fine accountant, but if I’d send him to town on an errand, he might accomplish the errand all right, and, on the other hand, might stop at four saloons on the way, and when he got to Main Street, would forget what he had been sent for.”

Can such a man be entrusted to carry a message to Garcia?

We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the “down trodden denizen of the sweat shop” and the “homeless wanderer searching for honest employment,” and with it all often go many hard words for the men in power.

Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain attempt to get frowsy ne’er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and his long patient striving with “help” that does nothing but loaf when his back is turned. In every store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on. The employer is constantly sending away “help” that have shown their incapacity to further the interests of the business, and others are being taken on. No matter how good times are, this sorting continues, only if times are hard and work is scarce, this sorting is done finer – but out and forever out, the incompetent and unworthy go. It is the survival of the fittest. self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best-those who can carry a message to Garcia.

I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to manage a business of his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to anyone else, because he carries with him constantly the insane suspicion that his employer is oppressing, or intending to oppress, him. He can not give orders, and he will not receive them. Should a message be given him to take to Garcia, his answer would probably be, “Take it yourself.”

Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind whistling through his threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare employ him, for he is a regular firebrand of discontent. He is impervious to reason, and the only thing that can impress him is the toe of a thick-soled No. 9 boot.

Of course I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied than a physical cripple; but in your pitying, let us drop a tear, too, for the men who are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whose working hours are not limited by the whistle, and whose hair is fast turning white through the struggle to hold the line in dowdy indifference, slipshod imbecility, and the heartless ingratitude which, but for their enterprise, would be both hungry and homeless.

Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I have; but when all the world has gone a slumming I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who succeeds – the man who, against great odds, has directed the efforts of others, and, having succeeded, finds there’s nothing in it: nothing but bare board and clothes. I have carried a dinner-pail and worked for a day’s wages, and I have also been an employer of labor, and I know there is something to be said on both sides. There is no excellence, per se, in poverty; rags are no recommendation; and all employers are not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all poor men are virtuous.

My heart goes out to the man who does his work when the “boss” is away, as well as when he is home. And the man who, when given a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the missive, without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets “laid off,” nor has to go on strike for higher wages. Civilization is one long anxious search for just such individuals. Anything such a man asks will be granted; his kind is so rare that no employer can afford to let him go. He is wanted in every city, town, and village – in every office, shop, store and factory. The world cries out for such; he is needed, and needed badly—the man who can

Carry a message to Garcia.


Swamp Ass and Other Wrinkles (i.e., Problems)

Who among you shares my hesitation when it comes to drinking a soda with a label that is cousin to “swamp ass?”  What’s worse, the logo for the swamp ass soda is a pair of nuts.  I think it’s high time that the purveyors of swamp-ass, (praline) nut-cream soda pack it up and retool, per se.  They need the:

And once they finally work on the label and get the nuts off, I consider that a job well done.

If you’re looking for advice on mastering the reverse tuck, just ask Emily:

Did I forget any ball jokes or did I hit on all the low hanging fruit?  (Huh?  Huh?)

Shit!  I have to go, my Uber Tuk Tuk is here.  I’ll leave you with this, a guy who went as LRM for Halloween.  He has one name tag with “little rocket man” and another with “supreme leader.”  This guy has bigger balls than Ellen Pao.  That chick is so spacey – I guarantee you that she was staring straight up at the sky, head cocked back, when she slammed into the glass ceiling…  I’m really hoping that joke didn’t fall flat.


Hurricane Harvey Grabs Headlines

…and some snatch.  First Donny-T and then this…didn’t Bernie warn us about the billionaire class?

Count it.

With the media and celebrities viciously attacking Handsy Weinstein, I ask you this: who’s the real victim here?

Of course I’m joking.  But, is it really workplace sexual harassment if one participant is more senior than the other?  I don’t know, I’m just asking questions, man.

Now a photo share from our very own Arch Stanton:


Isaac Newton was a DICK

But before I dive in head first (like Pete Rose), if you received the “Random Bidtits (10/4/2017)” email but didn’t read the post online, you’re missing out on a final paragraph following the photo of the porn stars (how many blogs can begin with this).  Posted that mofo before it was finished.

As for the topic of this post, we’ve again been graced with the boundless insights of the Meditative Mandarin.  He shared a story about Isaac Newton:

“If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

The enterprise of mankind as embodied in our advance of knowledge is built on the pattern of Shoulders of Giants.  Human knowledge and understanding is a very cumulative affair.

The quotation above was written by Isaac Newton as a backhanded insult directed squarely at Robert Hooke (1635-1702), with whom Newton carried on a life long, bitter rivalry.  Newton used this quote in a letter responding to Hooke’s claim that Newton stole the hypothesis on light from Hooke’s “Micrographia.”  Newton was familiar with Micrographia and claimed that Hooke took much of the work from Descartes who – claimed Newton – took his work from Marcantonia de Dominis and Ariotto.  The comment was very likely intended to be sarcastic as Hooke was a very short man, practically a midget.

Enough on Newton.  Now let’s talk about achieving his level of brilliance.  Start fluffing your neckbeards.  Study: Playing Starcraft can Increase your Cognitive Abilities