Sometimes I hate the news. Actually, it's not the news, but the nonsense reporters throw together to try and make some news. Such as a headline I spied out in today's dose of fear mongering:
Experts warn climate change may fan terrorism.
Oh come on. That headline looks like a random headline generator wrote it. Just suck up the latest buzzwords and mix them together. Once I actually read the article I realized it was not fear mongering, but rather attention whoring by the so-called 'expert'. I am going to call myself an expert and call some reporters over. They can come up with a great headline like; "Expert says low-flow shower heads may increase domestic terrorism'. Then I can bask in the attention whoring. I'll get invited to classy parties and sip Champaign while some old doxy in a set of pearls moons over my various fields of expertise that I elaborate over with numerous flippant hand gestures.
Anyways....
They are doing some roadwork on my morning route. Spiffy. Clear up those old potholes. Sure, it made me late for work, but I was rather impressed with the sheer speed that they are repaving the road. I sat in traffic and peered up and the huge mysterious road making machines. Sometimes I have no clue as to the purpose of these machines. They look like something that an evil super villain would ride. Dr. Smog and his devious pollution machine, coasting the countryside as it spills out a noxious and odious symphony of chemicals. Whatever the machines were they seemed to be doing a quick job of scraping up the old pavement and putting down a new layer. Makes me wonder about some of those roads you see around Orlando that seem to have been under construction for the past decade.
One of my favorite thrift shops will be shutting down at the end of next month, one located on 434. I will have to go in there before they shut down and stock up on a Ronco studding machines, pasta makers, thick 1970 wood furniture and a Skeletor action figures.
Just because.
2026 Update
Time machine set for 2007, where Ed is rage-reading climate headlines and plotting to be a fake expert.
Ah, 2007: a simpler hellscape. You call the headline “attention whoring” — sweet summer demon. Back then a fake expert needed a phone and a press release. Now every fool with a smartphone and a ring light can be a climate contrarian, a wellness guru, or an “analyst” on five panels at once. The news isn’t even assembled by reporters; it’s extruded by algorithms that know exactly which nonsense will make me spit out my coffee. Roadwork: still eternal, still inexplicable, but now the machines have blinking lights and QR codes on the barriers, and somehow they still take a decade. And thrift stores: they’ve been “curated.” Your glorious Ronco studding machine and Skeletor action figure would be listed as “vintage industrial object” and “collector’s item” for fifty bucks. You could have been a millionaire if you’d hoarded that junk, but then so would everyone else. The old doxy with pearls is now a podcast host with a Patreon, and she still doesn’t believe your expertise.
“2007 Ed, you mocked that climate terrorism headline, but then immediately plotted to become a fake expert yourself for the parties and pearls. If a reporter had actually called, would you have had a single real credential ready, or were you just hoping your flippant hand gestures would carry the day?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2007 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, you've gone and poked the bear, and by bear I mean me, a guy in a Sanford office with three cats and a growing collection of empty mead bottles. A real credential? Nope, not a single one. I have a high school diploma and a library card, and I'm pretty sure neither of those counts. But I've watched a lot of nature documentaries, and I once replaced a flapper valve in my own toilet, which is more than most experts can claim. The hand gestures would have absolutely carried the day. That's the whole trick: wave your arms like you're swatting invisible bees, say the data is clear, and everyone nods. I'd sprinkle in words like paradigm and synergy and low-flow shower head, and before you know it I'd be sipping champagne with that old doxy in pearls, telling her about my field research at the thrift shop on 434. Honestly, that seems to be how most of these experts got started anyway.
