Once in a while it has to happen. That feeling comes over you, and for some reason, you begin to believe that you can fix all those broken things around the house. This happened to me last Wednesday.
It started innocently enough. My wife announced that the camera no longer flashed. I tried to point out that this was a positive development since there would no longer be those annoying red dots where the subject’s pupils were supposed to be. My ploy failed to deter my wife, however, who continued to insist that the camera should flash. I shuffled to the drawer where the camera is kept. My mind was racing. What if I can’t fix it? I’ll look like an idiot!
When I turned the camera on, it looked as if the camera repair gods were smiling on me. The little battery thing was blinking. You know how they put those little icons on everything these days so you don’t have to read? My razor-sharp, analytical mind immediately assessed the blinking icon, and determined that the battery was in its death throes. What a break! I’m going to fix this thing and my wife is going to think I’m terrific! My good fortune continued. I actually had new batteries! I installed the new batteries, and strolled back into the den and flashed the camera in my wife’s eyes to dramatically demonstrate that I had successfully completed my mission. To my dismay, she was not impressed.
At it is so often in life, my success was followed not by critical acclaim, but by another challenge even greater than the previous one. When my wife’s vision returned, she informed me that since I was so smart I should save her the trouble and expense of taking in the vacuum cleaner for repair.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, with my index finger placed thoughtfully on the side of my chin, and a cogitative frown on my face.
“When I turn it on, nothing happens,” she replied.
“Hum. I see. Could be a problem somewhere,” I said as if I had just solved the problem of perpetual motion.
“Fix it.” She said with a look that would stop an advancing glacier.
Again, Lady Luck was in my corner. When I removed the plug from the cord one of those little prongs came off in my hand.
“I bet that’s supposed to be attached,” I thought.
I connected the wire to the loose prong, reassembled the plug, and Behold! The vacuum cleaner worked! By now my wife was beginning to marvel at my unprecedented luck, and I was beginning to think I could disassemble a space shuttle and put it back together again.
Nothing gets you in trouble like a little success. I decided that since I was obviously on a roll, I should tackle the riding lawn mower. The oil had not been changed since the Carter administration, so I surmised that an oil change would be a good place to start.
After staring at the mower for a few minutes while eating a grape popsicle, (which usually works) I decided to locate the owner’s manual. After a frantic search lasting roughly half an hour, I was surprised to find that I had wisely filed it in the file cabinet under “owner’s manuals”. I turned to the chapter called “How to Change the Oil”. The first instruction was “remove the cutting deck (page 45)”. Page 45 began six pages of instructions on how to remove the 250-pound cutting deck. Step one was “start early in the day”. This is not encouraging, I thought.
Undaunted, and believing that I could do anything, I confidently began to follow the steps for removing the cutting deck, certain that someone would be around to help me lift the thing if I did actually get it off. Did you know there was such a thing as metric bolts? I didn’t either. Not to be outdone, I drove to Lowe’s and bought a cheap 40-piece metric rachet set, which I sat on the mower seat. Which I promptly raised to get a better look at the insides of the mower. Do you know how long it takes to pick up forty metric sockets out of the grass and place them in order in a rachet set case? About fifteen minutes.
After stripping the first three metric bolts with my brand new 40-piece metric rachet set, I decided that there must be a better way to change the oil without removing the cutting deck. After staring alternately at the mower and the drawing in the Owner’s Manual demonstrating the location of the oil drain for about ten minutes (approximately one more grape popsicle) I decided to call the store which sold me the mower and ask them which bolt opened the oil drain. Their description was no more helpful than the Owner’s Manual. Not to be outdone, (I can fix anything now, remember?) I drove over to the store to have the man show me the oil drain. It was mildly encouraging to note that he didn’t seem to know where it was either. After a while, we located the bolt that he thought drained the oil, and I returned home ready to show this mower who was in charge.
I place the 40-piece rachet set on the seat of the mower, which I then raised to get a better…..just kidding.
After a lengthly series of unnatural and moderately painful contortions through and around the 250-pound cutting deck, I managed to get one of my sockets over the drain bolt. Giving it a few twists, I was soon rewarded with a trickle of oil down my arm. Then it occurred to me. Maybe I should catch this in something. Especially since I am in the carport. Do you know how many Parkay butter dishes you can fill with the oil from a riding lawn mower? About seven. Do you know where you are supposed to put the oil once you catch it? Neither do I.
I trudged back into the house looking much like Ashley Wilkes dragging himself up the road to Twelve Oaks after the war. I was battered, yet I survived. It was then that my wife notified me that there was a squeak in the bedroom floor.
“Fix it!” I said, with a look that could stop an advancing glacier.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without the consent of the author.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Tattooed to a "T"
I really didn’t mean to do it. It just sort of happened. My long-time friend, Pam, started it. During a meeting of the class reunion committee last fall, Pam mentioned that she had a couple of tattoos. She didn’t say where they were, and since I had known Pam for over fifty years, l had the good sense not to ask.
I guess that’s what got me to thinking. What should I do to celebrate my retirement? I had to be so straight-laced all those years or at least thought I had to be. It was time to branch out and do something off the wall. Since going to prison has never been very high on my list of “Things I Want To Do Before I Die”, I decided to keep it legal. That caveat did, however, narrow my options considerably.
Hence the tattoo. They are legal, affordable, readily available, and from what I could learn, not terribly painful unless you decide to have one burned into your eyelids. In reality, “burned” is not the word. Actually, ink is injected into the skin with tiny needles that the tattoo-ee hopes have been sterilized.
After a full day of intensive research which consisted of calling Pam and asking a few questions, I decided to proceed with my plan to permanently disfigure my body. The first plan of action was to decide which emblem, word, or insignia I wanted to employ to provide amusement for my eventual embalmer. I considered the word “MOM” with a bolt of lightning through it, but that had already been done. A butterfly would have put me too close in touch with my feminine side. I also considered the Chinese symbol for “music”, but my innate distrust of tattoo artists led me to think that someone with a sense of humor could give me a Chinese symbol that implied that I like to kiss chickens on the lips while howling at the moon, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.
I finally decided on a University of Tennessee Vols logo. I have been a Vols fan for years and I figured the worst that could happen was that they could go 0-12 and I would have to get it reddened into a University of Texas logo.
The next decision involved where to put it. The largest wide open space on my body, unfortunately, was my stomach, but that didn’t seem quite right. I was concerned that subsequent expansion would render the “T” so distorted as to be unrecognizable, especially around the holiday season. The chest was considered, but there are four chest hairs there that I have no intention of giving up. I wanted it in a place where I could see it, but the rest of the world couldn’t unless they had my permission. Ultimately, I decided upon the second largest wide open space available. My right bun.
The final hurdle to cross was to find a tattooist. More research revealed that most of my friends who had tattoos got them while they were drunk in Destin. That didn’t help me since I had no intention of either getting drunk or going to Florida anytime soon. It also came to my attention that most of the tattoo artists in West Tennessee operate out of condemned buildings. At best, I perceived serious sterility issues.
The problem was finally resolved when I remembered that my niece, who lived in Nashville, had two. I called to ask who did her’s and was told of a very skilled and reputable artist there. One Saturday in January, I decided to go to Nashville and get the tattoo.
My niece, Paula, had to work that Saturday, but her friend Samantha wanted to go with me. She was also thinking about getting a tattoo and wanted to see how much I screamed. The knowledge that I was having it put on my right bun didn’t seem to discourage her, so I figured “what the heck”, and agreed to let her watch the process.
When I entered the shop and spoke to the man at the front desk, I was faced with another important decision. Which artist did I want? I asked who was available, as if I would know either of them, and was given the choice of either Psycho or Fred. Not being a total idiot, I chose Fred. I plunked down two twenty-dollar bills and Fred left to prepare the instruments. Samantha followed me into the room and I am told ( by Fred ) to lower my pants and have a seat on the table with my back to him and Samantha. Next thing I know, Samantha is taking pictures with her camera phone. I asked her to at least wait until the tattooing started.
Bottom line, (sorry ) I was happy with the quality of Fred’s work and the pain was much like listening to opera. It’s something I can tolerate if I have to, but I’m kinda glad when its over. I had the tattoo placed high enough that I don’t have to incense anyone who wants to see it, but low enough that the preacher’s wife probably won’t get a peek. I have made available a Baptist Viewing and a Methodist Viewing, but I won’t get into that.
Now I have to celebrate turning 60. God help us all.
The content of this is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
I guess that’s what got me to thinking. What should I do to celebrate my retirement? I had to be so straight-laced all those years or at least thought I had to be. It was time to branch out and do something off the wall. Since going to prison has never been very high on my list of “Things I Want To Do Before I Die”, I decided to keep it legal. That caveat did, however, narrow my options considerably.
Hence the tattoo. They are legal, affordable, readily available, and from what I could learn, not terribly painful unless you decide to have one burned into your eyelids. In reality, “burned” is not the word. Actually, ink is injected into the skin with tiny needles that the tattoo-ee hopes have been sterilized.
After a full day of intensive research which consisted of calling Pam and asking a few questions, I decided to proceed with my plan to permanently disfigure my body. The first plan of action was to decide which emblem, word, or insignia I wanted to employ to provide amusement for my eventual embalmer. I considered the word “MOM” with a bolt of lightning through it, but that had already been done. A butterfly would have put me too close in touch with my feminine side. I also considered the Chinese symbol for “music”, but my innate distrust of tattoo artists led me to think that someone with a sense of humor could give me a Chinese symbol that implied that I like to kiss chickens on the lips while howling at the moon, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.
I finally decided on a University of Tennessee Vols logo. I have been a Vols fan for years and I figured the worst that could happen was that they could go 0-12 and I would have to get it reddened into a University of Texas logo.
The next decision involved where to put it. The largest wide open space on my body, unfortunately, was my stomach, but that didn’t seem quite right. I was concerned that subsequent expansion would render the “T” so distorted as to be unrecognizable, especially around the holiday season. The chest was considered, but there are four chest hairs there that I have no intention of giving up. I wanted it in a place where I could see it, but the rest of the world couldn’t unless they had my permission. Ultimately, I decided upon the second largest wide open space available. My right bun.
The final hurdle to cross was to find a tattooist. More research revealed that most of my friends who had tattoos got them while they were drunk in Destin. That didn’t help me since I had no intention of either getting drunk or going to Florida anytime soon. It also came to my attention that most of the tattoo artists in West Tennessee operate out of condemned buildings. At best, I perceived serious sterility issues.
The problem was finally resolved when I remembered that my niece, who lived in Nashville, had two. I called to ask who did her’s and was told of a very skilled and reputable artist there. One Saturday in January, I decided to go to Nashville and get the tattoo.
My niece, Paula, had to work that Saturday, but her friend Samantha wanted to go with me. She was also thinking about getting a tattoo and wanted to see how much I screamed. The knowledge that I was having it put on my right bun didn’t seem to discourage her, so I figured “what the heck”, and agreed to let her watch the process.
When I entered the shop and spoke to the man at the front desk, I was faced with another important decision. Which artist did I want? I asked who was available, as if I would know either of them, and was given the choice of either Psycho or Fred. Not being a total idiot, I chose Fred. I plunked down two twenty-dollar bills and Fred left to prepare the instruments. Samantha followed me into the room and I am told ( by Fred ) to lower my pants and have a seat on the table with my back to him and Samantha. Next thing I know, Samantha is taking pictures with her camera phone. I asked her to at least wait until the tattooing started.
Bottom line, (sorry ) I was happy with the quality of Fred’s work and the pain was much like listening to opera. It’s something I can tolerate if I have to, but I’m kinda glad when its over. I had the tattoo placed high enough that I don’t have to incense anyone who wants to see it, but low enough that the preacher’s wife probably won’t get a peek. I have made available a Baptist Viewing and a Methodist Viewing, but I won’t get into that.
Now I have to celebrate turning 60. God help us all.
The content of this is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
What To Do With Yourself
There’s something about a zero on the end of your age that gets you to thinking. Forty is that transition into middle age. At fifty you get invited to join AARP whether you want to or not. At sixty, your former classmates start showing up in the obituaries. From “natural causes”. That’s another way of saying “they got old and died of something.”
A human being is the only living entity on the planet that knows it’s going to die. This can be a blessing as well as a curse. In keeping with my life-long habit of gravitating toward the worst-case scenario, I tend to regard knowledge of my own eventual demise as a curse. I really would rather not know.
“Not being” anymore is not what bothers me. I figure sooner or later I will get old, sick, deaf, blind and bored and happily totter off to the next phase. What bothers me is how I’m going to spend eternity. No, not my soul….my body.
There are basically three choices available when disposing of a body which is no longer needed. Burial, cremation, and donation to science with eventual burial or cremation. I would be much more comfortable if there were more options available. I have serious issues with all three methods.
It’s easy to generate grandiose delusions about donating one’s body to science. One envisions an elderly professor at Johns Hopkins dressed in a long white coat delicately folding back the skin of one’s abdomen to point out all the organs and related structures to a gallery of serious-minded medical students who will be staring with inquisitive and serious gazes while at the same time taking copious notes. They would all be thinking, of course, how great this man was to donate his remains so that they could learn how to save the lives of others.
On the other hand, it is equally easy to generate more realistic portraits in the mind. Unfortunately, one is not given choices as to how one’s body will be used by “science”. Once you sign on the dotted line, all bets are off and the rules are subject to change.
One could be used to investigate the magnitude of damage done to a human groin by a .45 caliber hollow-point slug, or one could be used to determine what happens when a semi-trailor truck hits a Yugo. I can answer that one without using a cadaver. Somehow, the uncertainty of the level of indignity I could experience in the corridors of “science” makes me look at that method of body disposal with a bit of reluctance. I just can’t get past the idea that some red-neck medical student in Alabama might take my spleen home that evening as a doggy treat for Ole Rusty.
Burial has its own set of problems. I have never found the idea of lying in a hole in the ground, gradually decomposing over the next few years very appealing. They say they have air-tight and water-tight caskets, and they can add (for an additional charge of course) concrete vaults for the casket. That’s all a bunch of bullwinkie. You go in the ground… the buffet is open. Period. There is also the likelihood that you will be dug up someday by a bull dozer operator clearing land for a new Walmart. And there you are…on the six o’clock news making half the city say “ Oh yuck!” over their Hamburger Helper. Seems to me, burial is just a good living for the mortician.
Cremation sounds up front like a much less messy way of dealing with remains. All that is left from cremation is about ten pounds of ashes. They are considered sterile by federal and state governments, and can be spread pretty much wherever one wants to spread them, except maybe over pizza. There has even been a cute little word coined to describe the ashes. They are called cremains. Unfortunately, the way a body gets from its worldly state to ashes is anything but neat, so I am having trouble with that method of disposal as well.
I have given serious consideration to being stuffed, but no one seems to take me seriously, and there is a very good chance that would be illegal. I can see myself dressed in a little red jockey suit positioned out by the mailbox. I could be dressed in a Santa suit for Christmas and a bunny costume for Easter. The possibilities are endless. People would drive by my house every few days just “ to see what Jim is this week”. Of course, the downside would be roosting birds and the occasional dog marking my right leg as “his”.
Lately, I have found the idea of composting very appealing. Apparently, this method of body disposal is being considered in Sweden. So, if I am lucky (?) enough to die in Sweden, I might give it a try. Basically, as I understand the procedure, one is freeze-dried, and then hit over the head with a hammer of some kind. This results in being broken into a gazillion little pieces. Actually, I figure the procedure is a little more complicated than I have described here, but for the sake of brevity, that is basically what they do. Then the small pieces are scattered under a tree or other living plant of the deceased’s choice. Thereby, Uncle Joe becomes part of the tree, so to speak, and in a sense “lives on” since his molecules are eventually absorbed into the tree. Of course, the problem of a dog marking you as “his” is still an issue, and one must overcome the stigma of becoming a doggy bathroom if one chooses this method of disposal.
Fortunately for those of us who have serious issues with society’s standard methods of getting dead bodies out of the way, there is another method being studied in … you guessed it .. Sweden. You gotta love those Swedes.
I don’t remember what it’s called but I call it the Final Flush. Again, there is a very complex series of steps which render the body disposable, but again, in the interest of brevity I will cut to the chase. They place the cadaver in a vat of very toxic substances like lye or acetone, or maybe a diet soft drink. I am just picking those out of the air because they sound toxic. I have no idea what substances they really use. That would require research and frankly, I don’t want to take the time.
After an appropriate length of time, the body is liquefied and the resulting material can be simply flushed down the drain. Again, in keeping with my propensity to always find the down side of any issue, I must admit that I have serious safety concerns about the water table. Using the kitchen sink sounds a bit over the edge, and flushing someone down the toilet has certain negative connotations as well. Otherwise, not a bad idea. No muss, no fuss. I can even envision Do It Yourself Kits. “Say kids! Flush Aunt Mildred down the toilet in the privacy of your own home. Four easy payments of $19.95 plus shipping and handling.”
The end result of this mental exercise it to recognize that there are few good ways to die and even fewer good ways to be put away. As for now, I choose stuffing. At least I will still able to provide a little final amusement for my friends. All I ask is that my taxidermist go easy with the turkey baster.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
A human being is the only living entity on the planet that knows it’s going to die. This can be a blessing as well as a curse. In keeping with my life-long habit of gravitating toward the worst-case scenario, I tend to regard knowledge of my own eventual demise as a curse. I really would rather not know.
“Not being” anymore is not what bothers me. I figure sooner or later I will get old, sick, deaf, blind and bored and happily totter off to the next phase. What bothers me is how I’m going to spend eternity. No, not my soul….my body.
There are basically three choices available when disposing of a body which is no longer needed. Burial, cremation, and donation to science with eventual burial or cremation. I would be much more comfortable if there were more options available. I have serious issues with all three methods.
It’s easy to generate grandiose delusions about donating one’s body to science. One envisions an elderly professor at Johns Hopkins dressed in a long white coat delicately folding back the skin of one’s abdomen to point out all the organs and related structures to a gallery of serious-minded medical students who will be staring with inquisitive and serious gazes while at the same time taking copious notes. They would all be thinking, of course, how great this man was to donate his remains so that they could learn how to save the lives of others.
On the other hand, it is equally easy to generate more realistic portraits in the mind. Unfortunately, one is not given choices as to how one’s body will be used by “science”. Once you sign on the dotted line, all bets are off and the rules are subject to change.
One could be used to investigate the magnitude of damage done to a human groin by a .45 caliber hollow-point slug, or one could be used to determine what happens when a semi-trailor truck hits a Yugo. I can answer that one without using a cadaver. Somehow, the uncertainty of the level of indignity I could experience in the corridors of “science” makes me look at that method of body disposal with a bit of reluctance. I just can’t get past the idea that some red-neck medical student in Alabama might take my spleen home that evening as a doggy treat for Ole Rusty.
Burial has its own set of problems. I have never found the idea of lying in a hole in the ground, gradually decomposing over the next few years very appealing. They say they have air-tight and water-tight caskets, and they can add (for an additional charge of course) concrete vaults for the casket. That’s all a bunch of bullwinkie. You go in the ground… the buffet is open. Period. There is also the likelihood that you will be dug up someday by a bull dozer operator clearing land for a new Walmart. And there you are…on the six o’clock news making half the city say “ Oh yuck!” over their Hamburger Helper. Seems to me, burial is just a good living for the mortician.
Cremation sounds up front like a much less messy way of dealing with remains. All that is left from cremation is about ten pounds of ashes. They are considered sterile by federal and state governments, and can be spread pretty much wherever one wants to spread them, except maybe over pizza. There has even been a cute little word coined to describe the ashes. They are called cremains. Unfortunately, the way a body gets from its worldly state to ashes is anything but neat, so I am having trouble with that method of disposal as well.
I have given serious consideration to being stuffed, but no one seems to take me seriously, and there is a very good chance that would be illegal. I can see myself dressed in a little red jockey suit positioned out by the mailbox. I could be dressed in a Santa suit for Christmas and a bunny costume for Easter. The possibilities are endless. People would drive by my house every few days just “ to see what Jim is this week”. Of course, the downside would be roosting birds and the occasional dog marking my right leg as “his”.
Lately, I have found the idea of composting very appealing. Apparently, this method of body disposal is being considered in Sweden. So, if I am lucky (?) enough to die in Sweden, I might give it a try. Basically, as I understand the procedure, one is freeze-dried, and then hit over the head with a hammer of some kind. This results in being broken into a gazillion little pieces. Actually, I figure the procedure is a little more complicated than I have described here, but for the sake of brevity, that is basically what they do. Then the small pieces are scattered under a tree or other living plant of the deceased’s choice. Thereby, Uncle Joe becomes part of the tree, so to speak, and in a sense “lives on” since his molecules are eventually absorbed into the tree. Of course, the problem of a dog marking you as “his” is still an issue, and one must overcome the stigma of becoming a doggy bathroom if one chooses this method of disposal.
Fortunately for those of us who have serious issues with society’s standard methods of getting dead bodies out of the way, there is another method being studied in … you guessed it .. Sweden. You gotta love those Swedes.
I don’t remember what it’s called but I call it the Final Flush. Again, there is a very complex series of steps which render the body disposable, but again, in the interest of brevity I will cut to the chase. They place the cadaver in a vat of very toxic substances like lye or acetone, or maybe a diet soft drink. I am just picking those out of the air because they sound toxic. I have no idea what substances they really use. That would require research and frankly, I don’t want to take the time.
After an appropriate length of time, the body is liquefied and the resulting material can be simply flushed down the drain. Again, in keeping with my propensity to always find the down side of any issue, I must admit that I have serious safety concerns about the water table. Using the kitchen sink sounds a bit over the edge, and flushing someone down the toilet has certain negative connotations as well. Otherwise, not a bad idea. No muss, no fuss. I can even envision Do It Yourself Kits. “Say kids! Flush Aunt Mildred down the toilet in the privacy of your own home. Four easy payments of $19.95 plus shipping and handling.”
The end result of this mental exercise it to recognize that there are few good ways to die and even fewer good ways to be put away. As for now, I choose stuffing. At least I will still able to provide a little final amusement for my friends. All I ask is that my taxidermist go easy with the turkey baster.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
Say What?!
OK. Maybe it’s just me, but I find this amusing. I’m browsing through the local newspaper and there it is. “Cow Patty Contest Slated”.
Now, this conjures up old memories of when I used to go to Kentucky as a kid to visit my country cousins. We would play baseball in the cow pasture and use dried cow patties for bases. It took quite a while to get started because we had to find four sufficiently dry cow patties lying roughly in the shape of a diamond, since no one wished to move any of them. The largest one would always be “home”. Inevitably, someone, usually my cousin Max, would accidentally slide into a cow patty that was fresh. Obviously this would end poor Max’s participation in the game by unanimous consensus.
My first reaction to the Cow Patty Contest announcement was to assume that the editor needed a short filler and was having a little fun at our expense. As I began to read the announcement, however, I came to believe that someone out there was serious about this, and that the contest would come off as threatened. My second reaction was almost endless string of questions. How will the contest be judged? Top producer? Largest patty? Will cows be provided, or will we have to bring our own cow? Will anyone show up to watch? What kind of trophy will be awarded? Do cows have trophy cases?
As I read the announcement, one by one, my questions were mercilessly answered. A pasture would be marked off into squares and the squares would be sold for one dollar each. The cow contestants would be marched onto the field and patty production would begin. I suppose someone would give a signal? After a specified amount of time elapsed, the owner of the square with the most patty by weight would be declared the winner. I don't even want to THINK about the weighing process! I suppose the winner would then pay an enormous sum of money to the contest sponsor to NOT have his name printed in the newspaper. Then second place would be awarded to the owner of the square fouled by the second largest deposit, who would also pay an enormous sum of money not to have his name printed in the newspaper either. This would result in an unbelievably successful fund raiser for the Society to Promote Silly Cow Contests.
I was pleased to discover that cows were provided. When you think about it, this is logical. Can you imagine the potential for abuse if one were allowed to bring one’s own cow? Anyone wishing to cheat could have his cow primed and ready to go.
I resisted the temptation to observe the contest. I have a family to think about. I never heard who won, but I will bet the spectators didn’t rush out on the field to congratulate the winner.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author
Now, this conjures up old memories of when I used to go to Kentucky as a kid to visit my country cousins. We would play baseball in the cow pasture and use dried cow patties for bases. It took quite a while to get started because we had to find four sufficiently dry cow patties lying roughly in the shape of a diamond, since no one wished to move any of them. The largest one would always be “home”. Inevitably, someone, usually my cousin Max, would accidentally slide into a cow patty that was fresh. Obviously this would end poor Max’s participation in the game by unanimous consensus.
My first reaction to the Cow Patty Contest announcement was to assume that the editor needed a short filler and was having a little fun at our expense. As I began to read the announcement, however, I came to believe that someone out there was serious about this, and that the contest would come off as threatened. My second reaction was almost endless string of questions. How will the contest be judged? Top producer? Largest patty? Will cows be provided, or will we have to bring our own cow? Will anyone show up to watch? What kind of trophy will be awarded? Do cows have trophy cases?
As I read the announcement, one by one, my questions were mercilessly answered. A pasture would be marked off into squares and the squares would be sold for one dollar each. The cow contestants would be marched onto the field and patty production would begin. I suppose someone would give a signal? After a specified amount of time elapsed, the owner of the square with the most patty by weight would be declared the winner. I don't even want to THINK about the weighing process! I suppose the winner would then pay an enormous sum of money to the contest sponsor to NOT have his name printed in the newspaper. Then second place would be awarded to the owner of the square fouled by the second largest deposit, who would also pay an enormous sum of money not to have his name printed in the newspaper either. This would result in an unbelievably successful fund raiser for the Society to Promote Silly Cow Contests.
I was pleased to discover that cows were provided. When you think about it, this is logical. Can you imagine the potential for abuse if one were allowed to bring one’s own cow? Anyone wishing to cheat could have his cow primed and ready to go.
I resisted the temptation to observe the contest. I have a family to think about. I never heard who won, but I will bet the spectators didn’t rush out on the field to congratulate the winner.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author
Gene Autry Meets the ACLU
Gene Autry bursts into the old abandoned mine and immediately begins pummeling the bad guys into submission. Smiley Burnett, the obligatory bumbling sidekick, who hangs out with Gene for no apparent reason, stands to the side and acts as cheerleader for Gene while making wildly exaggerated swings at the air with his fists. One of the bad guys reaches for his gun and is unceremoniously outdrawn by Gene and shot on the spot. The others who have been humiliated by Gene’s fists quickly flee and ride off down the dusty trail. Smiley adjusts his hat, allows that he don’t reckon they’ll see that bunch of scalawags around these parts no more, pulls out a harmonica, and begins playing “Oh, Susannah”. Gene and Smiley receive a hero’s welcome from the townfolk upon their return for finally running the James Gang out of town.
Now for the 21st Century version.
The fleeing bad guys ride straight to the office of the local ACLU and tell their story. The four bad guys had just robbed a bank and had gone into the old abandoned mine to rest when two maniacs entered the mine and began committing mayhem. All had been assaulted and one was dead. One of the assailants rode a horse with silver buckles and rhinestones on the saddle, and was dressed in custom-fitted, wrinkle-free cowboy clothes with tassels, fringe, and more rhinestones. The other was overweight, wore a vacuous smile, and his hat turned up in the front. This unlikely pair is hard to miss, and they are quickly located by local authorities and arrested. The trial begins with Gene on the witness stand.
“Mr. Autry, please tell the jury where you work.”
“Well, I go around the countryside catching crooks and cattle rustlers and the like.”
“No, I mean how do you make a living for your family?”
“Living? Family?” “I just go around helping folks and doing good stuff. I don’t know anything about a family.”
“ Who pays you for helping folks and doing good stuff?”
“ Nobody pays me. I do it ‘cause it’s the right thing to do and I like it. I usually get free drinks when I ride back into town. Does that count?”
“No, that doesn't count. Where do you live?”
“Well, me and Smiley here got these bedrolls, and we just drop 'em down whenever we get tired.”
“So I guess we can say you are homeless and unemployed? Tell me. What law enforce-
ment agency do you work for? By what authority did you enter this mine and commit acts
violence on these men who were simply trying to rest?”
“They robbed a dadgum bank! I don’t have to have a badge to go after bank robbers. Been doing it for years.”
“Mr. Autry. The fact that these gentlemen robbed a bank is irrelevant to this case! I am
sure I can assume that you had no search warrant or warrant for their arrest.”
“Look, see my white hat? Those guys wear black hats. I don’t see the problem. It’s all pretty obvious to me.”
At this point, Gene breaks into a nasal rendition of “Melody Ranch” and has to be removed from the witness stand by the bailiff. Smiley, disappointed that he can’t join Gene in the song, puts his harmonica back in his pocket and sulks. The lawyer for the ACLU approaches the jury box and begins his final argument.
“As you can plainly see, my clients, the James Gang, have had their Civil Rights trampled by this man who, with no warrant or authority, blatantly burst into their hideou...... I mean resting place, and brutally attacked them. By killing the leader, and maiming three others, he has made it all but impossible for these men to continue in their chosen profession. Their lives have been forever scarred by this senseless act of violence.”
“Lets look for a moment at Gene Autry the man. He, by his own admission, has no visible means of support, and has no permanent residence. He has no badge of authority and appears to take matters of law into his own hands without thoughts of the consequences. In short he is a homeless vigilante. Besides, he dresses funny.”
“As for his sidekick, Mr. Burnett, we know that he has used the alias “Frog Milhouse” and likewise has no marketable skills other than playing harmonica and doing silly dances while Mr. Autry sings. It is clear to see that these men are guilty of infringing on the rights of the James Gang to make a living.”
After the trial ended, the judge sentenced Gene and Smiley to 18 months of sensitivity training, and the three remaining members of the James Gang went on to serve in the United States Senate. The lawyer for the ACLU got his own television show.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
Now for the 21st Century version.
The fleeing bad guys ride straight to the office of the local ACLU and tell their story. The four bad guys had just robbed a bank and had gone into the old abandoned mine to rest when two maniacs entered the mine and began committing mayhem. All had been assaulted and one was dead. One of the assailants rode a horse with silver buckles and rhinestones on the saddle, and was dressed in custom-fitted, wrinkle-free cowboy clothes with tassels, fringe, and more rhinestones. The other was overweight, wore a vacuous smile, and his hat turned up in the front. This unlikely pair is hard to miss, and they are quickly located by local authorities and arrested. The trial begins with Gene on the witness stand.
“Mr. Autry, please tell the jury where you work.”
“Well, I go around the countryside catching crooks and cattle rustlers and the like.”
“No, I mean how do you make a living for your family?”
“Living? Family?” “I just go around helping folks and doing good stuff. I don’t know anything about a family.”
“ Who pays you for helping folks and doing good stuff?”
“ Nobody pays me. I do it ‘cause it’s the right thing to do and I like it. I usually get free drinks when I ride back into town. Does that count?”
“No, that doesn't count. Where do you live?”
“Well, me and Smiley here got these bedrolls, and we just drop 'em down whenever we get tired.”
“So I guess we can say you are homeless and unemployed? Tell me. What law enforce-
ment agency do you work for? By what authority did you enter this mine and commit acts
violence on these men who were simply trying to rest?”
“They robbed a dadgum bank! I don’t have to have a badge to go after bank robbers. Been doing it for years.”
“Mr. Autry. The fact that these gentlemen robbed a bank is irrelevant to this case! I am
sure I can assume that you had no search warrant or warrant for their arrest.”
“Look, see my white hat? Those guys wear black hats. I don’t see the problem. It’s all pretty obvious to me.”
At this point, Gene breaks into a nasal rendition of “Melody Ranch” and has to be removed from the witness stand by the bailiff. Smiley, disappointed that he can’t join Gene in the song, puts his harmonica back in his pocket and sulks. The lawyer for the ACLU approaches the jury box and begins his final argument.
“As you can plainly see, my clients, the James Gang, have had their Civil Rights trampled by this man who, with no warrant or authority, blatantly burst into their hideou...... I mean resting place, and brutally attacked them. By killing the leader, and maiming three others, he has made it all but impossible for these men to continue in their chosen profession. Their lives have been forever scarred by this senseless act of violence.”
“Lets look for a moment at Gene Autry the man. He, by his own admission, has no visible means of support, and has no permanent residence. He has no badge of authority and appears to take matters of law into his own hands without thoughts of the consequences. In short he is a homeless vigilante. Besides, he dresses funny.”
“As for his sidekick, Mr. Burnett, we know that he has used the alias “Frog Milhouse” and likewise has no marketable skills other than playing harmonica and doing silly dances while Mr. Autry sings. It is clear to see that these men are guilty of infringing on the rights of the James Gang to make a living.”
After the trial ended, the judge sentenced Gene and Smiley to 18 months of sensitivity training, and the three remaining members of the James Gang went on to serve in the United States Senate. The lawyer for the ACLU got his own television show.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
Friday, January 16, 2009
It Wasn't About Me!
They even made a movie about it. “Father of the Bride”. It was a very funny movie too. Funny and scary at the same time. I had no idea.
In early August I received the phone call that every father dreads. Every dad wants to be the “Main Man” in his daughter’s life something like…..forever. Nate, whom my daughter, Kelly, had been dating for two years called and asked for a meeting. Since I am neither deaf, blind nor demented ( yet ), I had a pretty good idea what he wanted to discuss. I had seen that wide-eyed “yearning” look in his eyes when he looked at Kelly. We decided to meet at a local pizza establishment. I like to be load up on carbs, grease and dead animal parts after getting world changing news, so I wanted to get a head start.
Nate gave no indication that he has rehearsed his pitch. He looked me in the eye, told me how he felt about Kelly, and asked for my blessing to marry her. I noticed right off that he had not asked for “permission”. I had tried to spot a weakness in his speech that I could exploit on behalf of the unsuspecting Kelly, who was in eminent danger of spending the rest of her life with another man, but I could find none. Nate didn’t fidget or stare at his napkin and give me an opening. He exuded a confidence that I knew I couldn’t shake. I thought about telling him that the Carter family had a tradition of not consummating a marriage for at least a year, but Nancy seemed to be enjoying this whole conversation so I decided not to push it.
By the time we finished eating, I had resigned myself to the fact that this man would be sleeping with my daughter on a regular basis and that I might as well just make the best of it.
Needless to say, a proposal and acceptance followed soon after the pizza buffet. Both Kelly’s roommates had recently become engaged, which resulted in the decision to proceed immediately with wedding plans. Little did I know how monumental this decision would turn out to be. It saved me months of anguish and frustration.
My friend, Jay, who had recently suffered through two weddings, was a tremendous help to me. I told him what I thought about this and that, and he rapidly and forcefully put everything in perspective.
“It doesn’t matter what you think, you imbecile! It’s not about you. Just shut your mouth and open your wallet”, he told me without the smallest hint of a smile. What a blessing to have such a wise and sensitive friend.
However, in keeping with a long-standing tradition, I ignored Jay’s wise counsel. My first suggestion concerned the food that would be consumed at the reception. Kelly and her mother were discussing a menu that would have depleted the entire fruit and vegetable crop of southern California. I suggested that about fifteen boxes of Little Debbie Treats and a couple of cases of Mountain Dew should do the trick. You would have thought I had just suggested euthanizing little yellow baby chicks. Jay’s words rung in my ears.
Next came the matter of flowers. I pointed out that the wedding would take place in the fall and that no one would be expecting flowers. What a stroke of brilliance, I thought. Didn’t fly. The bridal bouquet alone was going to be $250. I suggested that the elegance of a single rose would provide a striking contrast to Kelly’s brown eyes and that the guests would be dazzled. That didn’t fly either.
The final straw came when I learned that the Maid of Honor’s dress had to match the napkins at the reception, and that my wife, Nancy, was working hard to get her cuticles ready for the wedding. I was clearly out of my league.
So, all you Fathers of the Bride, get over it. It’s not about you or what you think. Logic and practicality have no place in a wedding. But most importantly, I have learned that dancing with your daughter to “My Girl” is a bunch of fun and that son’s-in-law aren’t such a bad thing.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
In early August I received the phone call that every father dreads. Every dad wants to be the “Main Man” in his daughter’s life something like…..forever. Nate, whom my daughter, Kelly, had been dating for two years called and asked for a meeting. Since I am neither deaf, blind nor demented ( yet ), I had a pretty good idea what he wanted to discuss. I had seen that wide-eyed “yearning” look in his eyes when he looked at Kelly. We decided to meet at a local pizza establishment. I like to be load up on carbs, grease and dead animal parts after getting world changing news, so I wanted to get a head start.
Nate gave no indication that he has rehearsed his pitch. He looked me in the eye, told me how he felt about Kelly, and asked for my blessing to marry her. I noticed right off that he had not asked for “permission”. I had tried to spot a weakness in his speech that I could exploit on behalf of the unsuspecting Kelly, who was in eminent danger of spending the rest of her life with another man, but I could find none. Nate didn’t fidget or stare at his napkin and give me an opening. He exuded a confidence that I knew I couldn’t shake. I thought about telling him that the Carter family had a tradition of not consummating a marriage for at least a year, but Nancy seemed to be enjoying this whole conversation so I decided not to push it.
By the time we finished eating, I had resigned myself to the fact that this man would be sleeping with my daughter on a regular basis and that I might as well just make the best of it.
Needless to say, a proposal and acceptance followed soon after the pizza buffet. Both Kelly’s roommates had recently become engaged, which resulted in the decision to proceed immediately with wedding plans. Little did I know how monumental this decision would turn out to be. It saved me months of anguish and frustration.
My friend, Jay, who had recently suffered through two weddings, was a tremendous help to me. I told him what I thought about this and that, and he rapidly and forcefully put everything in perspective.
“It doesn’t matter what you think, you imbecile! It’s not about you. Just shut your mouth and open your wallet”, he told me without the smallest hint of a smile. What a blessing to have such a wise and sensitive friend.
However, in keeping with a long-standing tradition, I ignored Jay’s wise counsel. My first suggestion concerned the food that would be consumed at the reception. Kelly and her mother were discussing a menu that would have depleted the entire fruit and vegetable crop of southern California. I suggested that about fifteen boxes of Little Debbie Treats and a couple of cases of Mountain Dew should do the trick. You would have thought I had just suggested euthanizing little yellow baby chicks. Jay’s words rung in my ears.
Next came the matter of flowers. I pointed out that the wedding would take place in the fall and that no one would be expecting flowers. What a stroke of brilliance, I thought. Didn’t fly. The bridal bouquet alone was going to be $250. I suggested that the elegance of a single rose would provide a striking contrast to Kelly’s brown eyes and that the guests would be dazzled. That didn’t fly either.
The final straw came when I learned that the Maid of Honor’s dress had to match the napkins at the reception, and that my wife, Nancy, was working hard to get her cuticles ready for the wedding. I was clearly out of my league.
So, all you Fathers of the Bride, get over it. It’s not about you or what you think. Logic and practicality have no place in a wedding. But most importantly, I have learned that dancing with your daughter to “My Girl” is a bunch of fun and that son’s-in-law aren’t such a bad thing.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Where Are the Real Classmates?
I had my Mirror Epiphany a few weeks after my fortieth high school class reunion. A Mirror Epiphany occurs when you step out of the shower that some idiot contractor has placed directly across from a full-length mirror and see someone that resembles either your dad or the mummy of Rameses II. Your first thought is “When the heck did that happen?”
Of course, what I had observed is what is called in scientific circles the “threshold phenomenon”. I observed the threshold phenomenon in action many times at my recent fortieth high school reunion. I would notice someone heading my way, and the panic would set in.
“It’s got to be one of the last remaining teachers,” I would think. Grey hair, wrinkles, false teeth, that funny old-person smell. Which teacher could it be? Think! Think! She shuffled toward me on a walker with a piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe. There was a shapeless bulge on her hiney. “Got to be Depends” I thought.
“Hi Jimmy!” ( I was Jimmy in high school ) Then came the two most dreaded words you can hear at a high school reunion, “Remember me?”
“Uh…sorry. Give me a minute. I think my glasses are dirty.” I quickly removed my glasses and cleaned them on my shirt to give credence to the lie.
“It’s Sally! I sat behind you in third grade and you would beg me for cookies from my lunch box.”
My head was spinning. It was a classmate! Not a teacher! But she’s old! This old person claiming to be Sally was very disappointed that I didn’t recognize her, but she had to understand. She looked really old!
“Oh sure…Sally…you haven’t changed a bit!” I lied. She couldn’t be Sally. Sally was young and pretty. She was putting me on, playing some kind of joke. The real Sally was probably hiding in the background laughing her head off. But I played along pretending she really was Sally. I didn’t want her to think she had tricked me!
On and on it went, all night long. Total strangers, an endless parade of geezers, would come up to me pretending to be someone from my childhood. It became very annoying after a while. Where were the real classmates? Some would even pretend not to recognize me! I wasn’t able to figure out why so many people would go to so much trouble just to play a joke on me. We all started drifting off to sleep about 8:30PM, so I never found out what was really going on.
Until a few weeks later. My Mirror Epiphany explained everything.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
Of course, what I had observed is what is called in scientific circles the “threshold phenomenon”. I observed the threshold phenomenon in action many times at my recent fortieth high school reunion. I would notice someone heading my way, and the panic would set in.
“It’s got to be one of the last remaining teachers,” I would think. Grey hair, wrinkles, false teeth, that funny old-person smell. Which teacher could it be? Think! Think! She shuffled toward me on a walker with a piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe. There was a shapeless bulge on her hiney. “Got to be Depends” I thought.
“Hi Jimmy!” ( I was Jimmy in high school ) Then came the two most dreaded words you can hear at a high school reunion, “Remember me?”
“Uh…sorry. Give me a minute. I think my glasses are dirty.” I quickly removed my glasses and cleaned them on my shirt to give credence to the lie.
“It’s Sally! I sat behind you in third grade and you would beg me for cookies from my lunch box.”
My head was spinning. It was a classmate! Not a teacher! But she’s old! This old person claiming to be Sally was very disappointed that I didn’t recognize her, but she had to understand. She looked really old!
“Oh sure…Sally…you haven’t changed a bit!” I lied. She couldn’t be Sally. Sally was young and pretty. She was putting me on, playing some kind of joke. The real Sally was probably hiding in the background laughing her head off. But I played along pretending she really was Sally. I didn’t want her to think she had tricked me!
On and on it went, all night long. Total strangers, an endless parade of geezers, would come up to me pretending to be someone from my childhood. It became very annoying after a while. Where were the real classmates? Some would even pretend not to recognize me! I wasn’t able to figure out why so many people would go to so much trouble just to play a joke on me. We all started drifting off to sleep about 8:30PM, so I never found out what was really going on.
Until a few weeks later. My Mirror Epiphany explained everything.
The content of this blog is copyrighted and may not be reprinted or used without consent of the author.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)