Beer on Sundays and other shenanigans

We saw a home-made commercial yesterday for a company in South Carolina where a guy built a kick-yourself-in-the-butt machine for people who don’t buy from him. In the commercial, he gets another guy to actually crank the wheel and (repeatedly) let the old boots kick him in the butt.

I ask you: what planet are we on?

I took this picture last week, after driving past it for months. Slowly, ever so slowly, the South is becoming ready to rejoin the Union. This is some of the proof.


The decimals are still killing me, though. I did a mental count the other day and realized more than 95% of my family and friends have a college degree. This explains why poor spelling and missing decimals are so flabbergasting to me. All of my people can spell (except my mathematician sister) and most comprehend the decimal. These signs, like at Bojangles (and here) and Hardees and the package store, still knock me down. Every single time.

Welcome to the missing decimal parade, Colonel.


I Googled it just now and found (per the US Census of 2011) that more than 30% of Americans over age 25 have at least a Bachelor’s degree. That means 70 out of 100 do not. Those are the people in charge of making signs. Find them: they have a pile of decimal dots in their pockets and they don’t know what to do with them.


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