Blog #468                                February 26, 2026

 

My wife went to the symphony with some girlfriends.  The seats were close, but too far to the left and all they could see were the violins, so they moved closer to the woodwinds and . . . well, I never thought the symphony was a visual experience.  I don’t get a thrill from watching a guy blow into a clarinet or a bunch of well-dressed ladies bowing their violas.  It’s the music I go for, not the scenery.  Classical is not actually my favorite kind of music, but I can handle (make that Handel) most of it.  I’m really not a big fan of most art (make that Mozart), so when I go, I just close my eyes and lean back (make that Bach) and relax.  But to Carol and her friends, the visual is everything.  It thrills them more than shopping (make that Chopin).  I’m pretty sure it’s a sexual thing.

 

The trombone goes out and goes in!

The stroking of each violin!

The Conductor’s baton

Turns all the girls on

And the woodwinds are sexy as sin!

 

That’s why one of the woodwinds is called a sexy-phone.  And don’t even get them started about the pipe organ!  And the piano player?  I must admit I’m a bit jealous – must be a case of pianist envy.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  I am never merry when I hear sweet music (The Merchant of Venice).  I don’t like music very (make that Verdi) much.  I like it quiet so I can sleep on Pops’ lap when he reads.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling groovy, as we said in the 1960’s.  ATTENTION!!  Next week’s Limerick Oyster will not arrive on Thursday, but instead, due to travel plans, will arrive on Friday afternoon.  I know some of you will forget and send me nasty and confused emails.  DON’T!

 

How’s your hearing?  What?  HOW’S YOUR HEARING!  Yes, as we get older, as we reach the age where Happy Hour is a nap, some of us are beginning to turn up the TV volume and learning to read lips.  One of my friends just got a new hearing aid.  “I just bought a new hearing aid,” he told me.  “It cost me four thousand dollars, but it's state of the art. Perfect!”  “Really,” I replied. “What kind is it?” “Twelve thirty,” he replied.

 

The Olympics are over now.  I’m getting ready for the 2028 Olympics in Los Angeles.  I’m entering the Chewing Gum While Reciting the Raven event.  I think I have a chance for a medal.

 

I was so busy (make that Bizet) the other day, that for lunch I stopped by a pizza joint for a slice of bacon pizza.  The clerk asked for a telephone number for their computer system.  I replied with the following contumely: “I want a pizza.  Here’s my money.  My phone number is not your business.  If you refuse to sell me the pizza, I will sue you for discrimination.”  The pizza was delicious.  Then I came home and drank four glasses of wine.  Count em – one, two four.  But am I drump?  Nebytz.

 

Of course, you know I’m teasing.  I do not drink any alcohol.  I used to, but not anymore.  And contumely shall be our Weekly Word today.  It means insolent or insulting language.  I try not to use it too often.

 

You all know that Prince was Prince Nelson, Liberace was Wladzju Liberace and Madonna is Madonna Ciccone.  But can you recognize any of the personalities on this list?  Each one is known by a single name.

 

          Cherilyn Sarkisian          Gordon Sumner

          Paul Hewson                  Leslie Harby

          Edison Nascimento         Alecia Moore

          Calvin Broadus, Jr.

 

Last week, I talked a bit about my eccentric brother.  The last 20 years of his life, he lived in a huge, four-story mansion in a very nice neighborhood.  I never knew where he got the money to buy this behemoth, because he never had enough money to keep the house or the surrounding grounds in presentable shape.  The neighbors hated him.  He lived alone in this nine-bedroom beast with a main staircase that went halfway up to the second floor, stopped at a landing, turned around and went up the rest of the way in the other direction.  My brother slept on the landing.  Nine bedrooms, and he slept on a divan on the staircase.  There was another staircase somewhere, which I came across the first time I toured the house with him.  I saw every room, even the fourth floor.  It was pretty spooky.  I never went up to the fourth floor again. Who knows what could be hiding (make that Hayden) up there. And he lived there alone.  Well, almost alone.  There was Cora.  Cora was an elderly woman, dressed in clothes from the 1920s and made of cloth and stuffing.  You see, Cora was a life-sized doll who sat ageless, silent and unmoving in an old, decrepit chair in the front room.  One night, my brother and Cora were at home alone when the doorbell rang.  It was the police.  My brother cordially let the policeman in.  “Sir,” said the officer. “we’ve received some calls saying you have a dead woman in your living room.”  My brother introduced the nice young officer to Cora, made him a cup of coffee, and they parted as friends.  The police never bothered him again.

 

My three daughters loved their Uncle Ricky.  Sometimes they would sleep over at his spooky house, but they never slept in any of the lonely, drafty bedrooms or in the room with Cora.  They slept in sleeping bags on the landing.

 

Ok, here are the answers:  Cherilyn Sarkisian is Cher, Gordon Sumner is Sting, Paul Hewson is Bono, Leslie Harby is Twiggy, Edison Nascimento is Pele, Alecia Moore is Pink, and Calvin Broadus, Jr. is Snoop Dogg.  Well, Snoop Dogg is two words, but who’s counting?  Did you get them all right?  Did you get any right?  That’s ok, you can still come back next week.  I’ll be waiting. Stay well, and remember, you do not need a parachute to skydive.  You only need one to skydive twice.

 

And remember also that next week’s edition will not be on Thursday, but on Friday afternoon.  See you then.  Count your blessings and stay well.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #467                                         February 19, 2026

 

While driving around the other day, I saw a sign.  It was a green sign, which always indicates some official message like how far it is to the next town or which dead Highway Patrol officer the street is dedicated to.  This sign said “WILDLIFE VIEWING AREA” with an arrow and an image of binoculars.  It is a sad sign really.  Its obvious translation is: “A few miles down this road we actually found a place with a few animals left.  Bring your binoculars because there aren’t that many and they stay pretty much away from the road.  And hurry!  There’s a new Cracker Barrel coming next spring.”  Pretty soon the only animals left will be at the zoos and no-one will remember how they evolved or became extinct.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Thou callest me a dog before thou hast cause. But since I am a dog, beware my fangs (Merchant of Venice).      Why is he looking for other animals?  Am I not enough?  Is he going to bring another animal to live here?  He’d better have good health insurance.  Purr.

 

I’ve always loved animals, even fish.  For years, I had a tropical fish tank in my home office.  They were so pretty!  I used to leave the television on for them.  Their favorite shows were Dancing with the Starfish, Eel of Fortune and Orange Roughy is the New Black Roughy.  Or I would just put on a tape of South Pacific.  Their favorite song, of course, was Salmon Chanted Evening.  I had a cat named Misty at the time, and Misty loved to sit next to the tank and watch the fish.  One day, she inadvertently rubbed the heater control and the fish were cooked to death.  Sad.

 

And speaking of animals, when the St. Louis Zoo opened a new grizzly bear exhibit a couple of years ago, Huck and Fin, the grizzlies, tried to get out, digging under the glass that separates them from the tourists.  The exhibit was closed while the enclosure was reinforced.  Shame on those Terrible Teddies, those Silly Smokies, those Bad News Bears – trying to break out of a cage!  What were they thinking of?  Probably freedom.

 

Whole Foods cares about animals.  It has terrific presentation and a wonderful prepared-foods department and it is totally attractive and hip and “in”.  But come on!  Some of the hype that goes on in there is ridiculous.  There was a cooler case with a sign that read “Five-Star Animal Welfare Rating”.  Ok, the sign made me wander over to inspect just how well the animals had been treated.  They looked dead to me.  Not only dead, but dismembered and shrink-wrapped.  One package of shrink-wrapped body parts said “Fresh Young Chicken”.  Seriously? If that doesn’t bring up a scene of intense, bloody cruelty, nothing does.  Here’s a gaggle of fresh young chicks in the prime of youth with their whole lives to look forward to – snatched, butchered and pulled to pieces.  Do visions of Jeffrey Epstein come to mind?  But we were kind to these “Fresh Young Chicks”.  We played Mozart for them and old Foghorn Leghorn cartoons before we ripped their bodies to pieces.  How humane!  Pass the barbecue sauce.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and enjoying all the special days of this special week.  Saturday was Valentine’s Day; Monday was Presidents Day; Tuesday was Fat Tuesday (in French, that’s Mardi Gras); Wednesday was Ash Wednesday and today is Limerick Oyster Day.  Aren’t you happy?  Let’s get to it.

 

Have I told you about my brother?  I’m sure I have.  He was one of the wackiest people I have ever known, lovable, but eccentric in the extreme.  For instance, he did not eat during the day, only at night.  Maybe he was a vampire.  I was throwing out the trash today when I saw a clump of lint Carol had taken from the dryer.  It made me think of my brother.  He never threw out lint.  Instead, he saved it and used it to stuff his chairs at home to make them softer.

 

Just tell me, to win all the money,

Who acts most peculiar and funny?

I’ll give you a hint

He recycles lint

And never eats food when it’s sunny.

 

I am not making any of this up.  I don’t have to make up weird stories about my brother.  Sometimes I think he may have been a Klingon.  He abnegated spending more money than necessary, so when he was suffering from the last throes of cancer, I would take him grocery shopping.  First, we had to go to a farmer’s market for grapes.  Then we had to go to Aldi’s.  Have you ever read Dante’s Inferno?  There’s a chapter about grocery shopping in Hell that was patterned after the Aldi experience.  No carts, no brand names, no bags, no personnel above the Cro-Magnon level, and a thousand crazed, impoverished souls fighting over the last carton of generic taco shells.  From there, we moved up the food-chain to Shop n Save.  They’re so cheap, they couldn’t even afford all the letters in their own name.  And then we were finished, three different stores to spend a total of $7.75.  How much could he have saved?  A quarter?  He wasn’t just from a different planet.  He was his own planet.  He died in 2001.

 

Weekly Word:  Abnegate means to renounce or reject something.

 

Recently, I was driving with two of our grandchildren and Carol in the back seat. They were loud and raucous, so she created a challenge.  “Let’s see if we can go for a whole minute without talking.”  I was appointed the official timer, but I knew we would never make it to the finish line, and I knew who would lose.  About 35 seconds in, Carol started talking.  You’ve heard of The Elf on the Shelf?  My wife is The Yak in the Back.  I think the 35 seconds was actually a new record for her.

In the 1850s, German physicist Rudolf Clausius proved the impossibility of Perpetual Motion.   But old Rudy never met my Whirling Dervish.

 

Oops, gotta go.  Carol is calling me.  I’m late, I’m late, no time to say “Goodbye-Hello”.  But time enough to say stay well and count your blessings.  See you in a week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com 

 

 

 

Blog #466                                February 12, 2026

 

Do you remember our Weekly Word last week?  It was philippic, and it meant a bitter attack or tirade. Well, I’m about to go on one.  Fasten your seatbelts.  The Winter Olympics have begun, but I can’t get excited about them.  Here’s why:

 

·        I am currently at home watching Olympic Curling.  That’s the event where they slide a big rock (which they call a stone) down the ice while sweeping its path with a broom (which they call a broom).  It’s played like Shuffleboard or Bocce and has all the excitement of a Lawrence Welk accordion solo.  I know you have to be good to compete, but would you call that “athletic prowess”?  Should darts be an Olympic sport?  Or chess?  How about canasta?  To me, Curling is a Winter Olympic embarrassment. 

·        And some of the newer events are too strange and silly for me.  Seriously, skiing should be one event – Downhill.  The one who gets there first wins.  I like things simple.  But now there is skiing with little zig-zags, skiing with big zig-zags, skiing over bumps, skiing over bumps while doing somersaults.  There’s skiing and shooting.  Now there’s a sport for you! It’s called Biathlon.  Ski for an hour, then start shooting the guy ahead of you.  That’s what the Darwinian spirit is all about.  It certainly isn’t about survival of the sweeper.

·        Many Winter Olympic events, Bobsled, Luge, Ski Jumping are nothing but a combination of nerve and gravity.  I know they take skill, but they’re just not interesting to watch.

·        Snoop Dog is an honorary torch bearer.  Yes, the same Snoop Dog that gave us the lyrics "Bitches ain't sh*t but hoes and tricks” and other wholesome and memorable obloquies.  Maybe we should let Harvey Weinstein sell T-shirts and Bill Cosby give out the medals.

·        I don’t like sports that are decided by style and grace.  Ice skating, for instance.  The Olympic Motto is Faster, Higher, Stronger.  It is not Cuter, Biggest Smile, Best Hair-do.   The gold medal for the downhill skiing event is given to the skier who gets to the finish line the fastest.  Nobody cares what he (or she) is wearing, or whether he’s got his fingers in his ears or his hand up his ass.  Get there first and you win!

 

While curling contestants are sweeping

It’s Snoop Doggie’s lyrics I’m bleeping

If I have to choose

Between watching the Luge

And taking a nap – I’ll be sleeping.

 

And what does my wife think?  It’s always fun watching the events with Carol.  We were watching the figure skating last night.  The announcers – you know, the blonde lady and the guy whose hair looks like a pineapple?  Well, these announcers were describing the triple flippers and the quadruple moocows and the quintuple lollipops.  The skaters were magical, flying down the ice and soaring through the air.  And you know what Carol said?  “I don’t like her outfit.”  These skaters have practiced for thousands of hours – exercised, suffered, sacrificed.  They are superb and seasoned athletes.  But one polka-dot out of place?  Get the hook!

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  That is my home of love (Sonnet 109).  Cats have a winter sport.  It’s called Purr-ling.  We slide a dead mouse across the kitchen floor until it gets stuck under the refrigerator.  I’m not good at Purr-ling because I’m missing a leg, but I used to like watching the other cats play back at the shelter.  I’m really happy to be away from the shelter and living in my wonderful home.  Thank you, Pops.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  Did you enjoy the Super Bowl?  How about Bad Bunny?  Or was it Kid Rock?  What have we come to in this country?  We cannot have a State of the Union address by the President without having a Response by the opposition.  Now, we can’t even have a Super Bowl halftime show without having an alternative performer on a different station.  Do we have to protest everything?  Is it just because Bad Bunny speaks Spanish?  Well, actually, Football is basically an American sport, though they play a version of it in Canada, and the Super Bowl is one of the most celebrated days of the year.  I think it was pretty strange to have the halftime entertainment in Spanish.  I’ve heard that next year, they’re planning to sing the Star-Spangled Banner in Spanish.  It starts:  Jose, can you see?  To tell the truth, who cares what language he performs in?  He could speak English, Spanish, Vietnamese or Esperanto and I still wouldn’t know what he was talking about. 

 

Here’s something I care about –shingles.  A friend of mine just got shingles.  I’ve had it before. What a ridiculous name for a disease!  It sounds like some kind of building material, as if the doctor said you had acute drywall.  Or hardening of the concrete or a pain in the asphalt.  There actually is a medical condition very much akin to construction, and a lot of my friends have it.  It’s called having a screw loose.

 

And speaking of names for diseases, I think history will come to show that constant cell-phone usage will prove to have been a mistake.  I see those teen-aged thumbs texting and clicking and clacking four miles a minute and I just know in a few years there will be some disability attributable to it all.  So naturally I have begun to come up with some names.  It pays to think ahead.   How about:  Thummy-ache or Digitalis or even Textually Transmitted Disease?

 

Back to the Super Bowl.  It’s just me, I’m sure, but I couldn’t seem to understand what the Super Bowl commercials were trying to promote.  There were a lot of graphics and movement and music, but when it was all over, I didn’t know what they were selling.  Except the Budweiser ad, of course.  I loved the little Clydesdale.

 

Obloquy, of course, is our Weekly Word.  An obloquy is strongly condemnatory and abusive language.

 

I have to go now; I’m exhausted.  Being clever and witty tires me out.  And thank goodness I can’t hear any of your smart-aleck comments to that!  Maybe I’ll write next week’s issue in Spanish.  Let’s see how you like that, mis amigos.  Hasta luego, stay well and count your blessings.

 

Conejito Malo                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #465                                February 5, 2026

 

I had a slice-and-dice session with Dr. Skin.  It was a basil-cell thingy and she sliced it off and cauterized the wound.  Her young associate actually performed the procedure, and had asked me beforehand if I had a pacemaker or defibrillator.  You see, they were going to cauterize the wound by using an electric charge.  I said, “Whoa, Hoss.  I have (pointing to my chest) a pacemaker, a defibrillator and a 26-inch flat-screen in there and if you set one of them off, it will not be pleasant.” 

 

Your fancy electric device

Might shock me and that isn’t nice

My heart will go boom

And I’ll light up the room

And my body will turn cold as ice.

 

Dr. Skin said she thought it would be alright, and it was.  It is a sobering fact to realize that the beating of my heart is controlled by a device assembled by the lowest bidder.  Plus, the defibrillator has an internal siren that sounds like a Nazi police car and comes out of my chest.  They test it every once in a while, and, believe me, it is very spooky to hear that Gestapo sound coming from your own chest. I hate the Nazi siren.  I would rather have music; even Nazi music would be better. 

 

Oh no.  I knew this was coming! Now he is going to come up with some stupid list of Nazi songs that he made up.  It’s bad enough we have to read his dumb limericks, now we have to suffer through this stupid thing.  Exactly!  Get over it.  Here they are – Nazi songs!

 

Well It’s Bad, Bad Eva Braun, We’re So Sorry Uncle Adolph, Hitler With Your Best Shot, and yes, I have a favorite: Come On Baby Light My Fuhrer.

 

Welcome back, everyone.  I hope you are feeling well.  Are you fed up with all the political squabbling?  I am, but let’s forget it all for a while and look forward to Spring.  That’s right, it’s February, and that means Spring is around the corner.  Which reminds me – Monday was Groundhog Day and Punxsutawney Phil peeped his furry little head out of his hole.  Let’s see if I remember the rules:  if Phil sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of Winter.  If he doesn’t, it means an early Spring.  If he sees Tom Homan’s shadow, he’ll be deported to Guantanamo Bay.  Do they have groundhogs in Cuba?  Maybe not.  Anyway, Phil popped out, saw his shadow and scurried back in immediately to avoid being interviewed by Don Lemon.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor.  (The Tempest).  Why an ugly, old groundhog?  Why not a beautiful cat?  We could have Cat Day and I could be St. Louis Shakespeare and everyone could pet me.  Purr.

 

I don’t know what to talk about this week.  No funny stories, no goofy poems, no vitriolic philippics.  Oh, there’s a story actually.  I was reading a biography of Winston Churchill, and the word philippic was used.  I had never encountered that word, so I looked it up.  It means a bitter attack or denunciation, the kind of thing I launch into with you once in a while.  It was such an unfamiliar word, I decided to share it with you as our Weekly Word, which I have just done.  Then, Sunday night, as we – wife, daughters, grandchildren – congregated on Zoom to destroy the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle, we came upon a clue.  Philippic, it read.  No-one had ever heard of it, and neither had I until a few days before, so I told them the definition and we came up with the answer of tirade, which fit nicely into the puzzle.  I thought the coincidence was spooky.

 

I am also reading another book, a novel, and it has a very religious undertone.  God, of course, is referenced as HE.  In last week’s edition, I mentioned God and employed HE.  Carol previews each edition of my blog before I send it to you to make sure I don’t make too many stupid mistakes.  When she read last week’s, she said, “Can’t God be a SHE?”  No, I replied, I’m pretty sure God is a HE.  But there was a Mrs. God.  SHE was the one sitting around reading a book one day when she said, “Honey, it’s really dark in here.  Can’t you turn on a light?”  Let There Be Light boomed out God, and the rest is history.  And don’t ask me what book Mrs. God was reading.  How should I know?

 

Maybe SHE was reading a magazine.  Can you guess the magazine with the largest subscription?  It’s AARP The Magazine.  In second place is AARP Bulletin.  They each have about 23 million readers.  By contrast, Time, National Geographic, Cosmopolitan, Sports Illustrated and Readers Digest each have about 3 million readers.  It seems that AARP has the Old People market under control.  What we need are magazines for Dead People.  Here are a few proposals: Good Hearsekeeping, Corpse Illustrated, Better Plots and Gardens. 

 

I had lunch with a friend yesterday.  Naturally I got there early and, as I patiently sat, reading my book and sipping an iced tea, a lady (my age I suppose) came in and sat at a nearby table.  She told the waiter, “I’m waiting for one more -- short, balding, glasses.”  Is that how we talk about our loved ones when they’re not around?  With some trio of defining characteristics?  Is that how Carol would describe me to a waiter – gray hair, carries a book, Nazi siren coming out of his chest. 

 

When I describe her, it’s always in glorious and adoring superlatives – I’m waiting for a beautiful dark-haired woman.  I would never say, “I’m waiting for one more – short, walks fast, won’t like the table.”  Anyway, when this lady’s husband came in, I knew him immediately from his wife’s description.  He was short and nondescript and lost and generally husband-looking.  I almost just waved at him and pointed him to his wife’s table.  But he found her.  We always do.

 

That’s all, folks.  Another normal week – Nazi music and magazines for dead people.  And you keep coming back?  There must be something wrong with you.  See you next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #464                                January 29, 2026

 

Doesn’t anybody care about their privacy anymore?  They put their whole lives on Facebook.  They put naked pictures of themselves on You Tube.  They twitter their every thought to the whole world.  They live in a fantastic goulash of continuous and interminable connection to as many other lost souls as they can. I want my privacy and I want my solitude.  The younger generations want to be connected to as many people as possible for as much time as possible and they don’t care who knows what.  I don’t get it.  Doesn’t anybody ever want to be alone besides me and Greta Garbo?

 

Now that I think of it, if I am so passionate about my privacy and my solitude, why am I vomiting up all the secrets of my life to you every Thursday?  I mean, you know everything about me – about my naked light treatments with the brown paper bag over my head; about my obsessive morning visits to McDonald’s; about my utter technological ignorance; about my urine sample.  Have I told you about my urine sample?  Maybe not.

 

A while ago I had to give a urine sample to the lab.  All I had to do was deliver it, but when I arrived, there was a line at the receptionist’s desk.  I caught her eye and held up the filled vial, whereupon she pointed to the back of the line and said:

 

Good afternoon, Sir, I can       C

You’ve brought in a bottle of    P

If we could ask                        U

To stand in the                         Q

We’ll take you as soon as can  B

 

Well, at least I haven’t posted any naked pictures.  Hi there and welcome back to my latest episode.  I hope you are feeling well and staying warm.  I have readers in California, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Georgia, North Carolina, Florida and Mexico.  They are probably warm, but here in St. Louis it has been really cold.  It’s so cold, I saw Rachel Maddow and Tom Homan hugging. It’s so cold that Donald Trump just booked a cruise to Venezuela. 

 

As I write to you, I am looking out the window of my study at a winter blizzard.  The snow is falling like confetti at a Macy’s Parade, and the prediction is for 18 inches.  We have enough food in the house.  Carol and I, after all, eat like birds.  Shakespeare has enough food. It’s warm enough and I have plenty to do – write to you and read my books.  My only fear is if we lose power.  Well, no point in worrying about something I cannot control.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:   Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where (Sonnet #5).  All that white stuff looks like fun, but Pops never lets me outside.  Oh, look, there’s a stupid dog dragging his human around getting all sloppy and dirty and cold.  I think I’ll stay inside.  It’s warm and the food is good and Pops plays with me and I get to sleep on his bed.  Purr.

 

Is all this giving you a headache?  In my youth – you had a headache, you took aspirin.  You went to the corner drugstore -- Bert & Jeanette’s on Clayton Road next to Lake Forest Bakery.  Mmmmm, the smell of butter cookies wafting through the air!  Where was I?  Aspirin!  There were two kinds – the small bottle of Bayer and the large bottle of Bayer.  The large bottle had twice as many pills and cost twice as much.  And if it didn’t work, the only other course of action was – lie down; it’ll get better.  Now it’s different.  Recently, I went to get something for a headache.  The pain reliever aisle at Walgreen’s was three miles long and the Tylenol section had 100 different kinds, mixtures, sizes and configurations of Tylenol.  They had a pineapple-flavored Tylenol.  They had a Free-Range Tylenol.  And for each one, there was a Walgreen’s store-brand version that was exactly the same.  That made 200 different choices.  And that’s just Tylenol!  Then there were 200 kinds of Advil, 200 kinds of Aleve, 200 kinds of Motrin and yes, there was actually aspirin.  What was I to do?  It’s enough to give you a headache.

 

I just went to get the mail.  Getting the mail is a routine, but very important part of the day.  To many, it is almost a holy pilgrimage to trek to the mailbox or Post Office each and every day without fail.  Our letter carrier (I almost said Mailman which would have been horrible.  After all, it could have been a Femail Man.) – our letter carriers let neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stay them from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

 

The mail is where you get your bills, wedding invitations, holiday cards and magazines.  I go each day to the mailbox with the same thrill of anticipation and aura of mystery that a five-year-old has when opening a birthday present. Today there was only one item, an invitation to an Open House at the new Senior Lifestyle Community down the street.  Is that sad?  To find nothing but a reminder of how old you are?  Last week I got a catalog displaying the latest in Cremation Urns.  How do they know I’m old?  Do they read my blog?  The older I get, the more I understand why roosters just scream to start their day. (I stole that line from a list my friend Paul sent me.  Shame on me, but it was funny.)

 

While out driving today, I saw a pickup truck with a sign.  Jesus Landscaping, it read.  I’m totally serious.  Jesus Landscaping!  Was the tithe a little short this month, Big Guy?  What do you specialize in, cross-breeding?  How about Walk-On-Water Lilies? Rosary bushes?  I’d better stop before I get hit by a holy roller.  Or lightning!  Actually, I’m not worried.  I’m only joking and I’m pretty sure God has a sense of humor.  He made Donald Trump, didn’t He?

 

Well, it’s time for my ending peroration, but not before our Weekly Word.  We might as well use peroration.  It is the concluding part of a speech, intended to inspire enthusiasm.  And here it comes – stay well, stay warm, stay positive and count all those blessings.  I’ll be back with you next week.  See you then.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 Blog #463                                January 22, 2026

 

Somebody mentioned Shake Shack the other day.  I will never forget the week that Shake Shack came to town, and we just HAAAAD to go.  I mean, how could we allow a new restaurant to come to town and not eat there before the first ketchup spill had dried on the floor?  (And don’t tell me it’s catsup.  Ketchup is what normal people put on their fries.  Catsup is what strange people from Long Island put on their scrambled eggs.)  So we drove twenty miles and stood in a line outside in 34^o cold for 40 minutes with a bunch of perfervid college students who thought we were the cast from Cocoon III.  The atmosphere was frenetic and fun, the burger was ok, the fries were terrible and the prices were outrageous.  But it was the new thing, the place to be, the scene, the in place.  And besides, you know the old saying; nothing ventured, nothing shivered in the cold for 40 minutes just to get an average burger and cold fries.   

 

I like Italian food better than burgers and fries, and I especially like Sicilian food with lots of olive oil and lemon and garlic.  A Sicilian restaurant is an Italian restaurant with pictures of criminals hung in the Men’s Room.  They usually have Marlon Brando and Al Pacino in pics from The Godfather and James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano.  Why do they display pictures of murderers and gangsters?  Are they proud of them?  Do you go to a Jewish deli and see pictures of Jeffrey Epstein and Bernie Madoff?  Do German restaurants have pictures of Hitler?  It wouldn’t surprise me.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Did you know that last week was National Bagel Day?  To me, it was a big zero.  And did you know what

perfervid means?  It’s an unfamiliar word, but I know you like strange words for your Weekly Word.  Perfervid means very intense and impassioned. 

 

Actually, I have become very perfervid over something my oldest daughter just shared with me.  First, let me remind you that last week’s blog started with my frustrated confession of how difficult it was for me to replace some fluorescent bulbs in my bathroom and continued with a frustrating experience with a new hotel room.  Well, apparently my daughter has some setting on her phone which causes an Artificial Intelligence app to provide a short summary of any lengthy emails she receives.  What a world, right?  Anyway, here is the AI summary of my blog from last week:

 

Michael sent a blog post detailing his struggles

replacing a bathroom light fixture and his

wife’s refusal to help.  Michael complained

 about the overly complicated, frustrating

 technology in a recent Los Angeles hotel room.

 

That’s it.  That’s what AI gives you, dull prose with no humor and no irony.  So tell me, would you rather read the AI summary and be done with it or would you rather read my blog in all it’s wordy and humorous glory?  You’d better come up with the right answer.

 

I think the old man talks too much, but it doesn’t matter.  The only part I read is the Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat.  That old poet, the one named after me, said, Silence is the perfectest herald of joy (Much Ado About Nothing).  I would never bore you with too many words.  In fact, all I say is Meow.

 

Sorry if my cat is a little grumpy.  I bought him a new toy the other day.  It’s a little ball with a tail and some feathers, and there’s a motor inside the ball.  When you push a button, the ball rolls around and shakes its tail.  And Shakespeare runs away in terror and hides under a bed.  But if you don’t activate the motor, he loves to play with it.  See, he’s a Luddite like me; he doesn’t like new technology either.

 

I have a little puzzle for you.  Try putting six Xs on a tic-tac-toe grid without getting three in a row.  Answer later.

 

Prices for medicine seem to have gone up a lot in 2025.  I just got a new prescription for my arm and my leg.  It cost me an arm and a leg.

 

These tablets will act as a cure

Please take before bed to make sure

Dilute with some juice

‘Cause repeated use

Will cause you to be very poor.

 

When one of the side-effects on the label is “Bankruptcy”, it’s time to look for a generic. 

 

We are firmly into Winter now and it is very cold.  I hate the cold, and, as I age, I seem to be getting less tolerant of it.  Why did God have to invent winter?  As a contrast?  John Steinbeck wrote, “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”  Maybe God made winter so we could marvel at the beauty of snow.  Or maybe He just wanted to make us shiver.

And yes, I called God a He.  Do I really need to apologize for that?  It seems that God has been called Our Father, Our King for almost 6,000 years, but in the past 25 years we have changed God to Our Parent, Our Ruler.  Why can’t God be a man?  Mother Nature hasn’t been changed to Parent Nature.  Have you ever heard of Parent Goose stories?  Or the Siblings Grimm?  Or Parent Theresa?  With all the scandals going on nowadays, I guess it’s not so good to be a man anyway.  So let’s just pray to Whoever for a mild winter.  Amen!  Oops, I guess I should have said – A-person!

 

And speaking of The Brothers Grimm.  Why isn’t it the Grimm Brothers?  It just sounds strange.  Have you ever heard of the Brothers Everly?  Or the Brothers Righteous?  Or the Brothers Smothers? 

 

And speaking of Parent Theresa, she once said, “Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.”  Thanks for joining me today.  I hope I have left you a little better and happier.  Maybe a smile or two.  Who needs that boring AI summary?  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Here are the six Xs placed on a tic-tac-toe grid that don’t make three in a row. 

 

X  X 

X     X

   X  X