Blog #371                                         April 18, 2024

 

I went to get a routine blood test this morning at the hospital.  I had the paperwork, so I just asked directions at the reception area.  The lab was right next to the reception and the nice young lady told me I could register using the kiosk or just write my name on the clipboard.  There were 6 or 8 people, already registered and waiting to be called, and one man working the computer in the kiosk.  I stood behind him.  After all, I’m a modern kind of guy.  I can manage each week to write you a blog, so I’m certain I can navigate my way through a little kiosk .  I mean, what could go wrong?  I can read English; my IQ is higher than the average bear; my reading glasses are strong enough.  What could go wrong? 

 

The guy in front of me was now frantically tapping buttons and cursing.  He looked to be a tad younger than me.  I waited.  I mean, why should I surrender to the demons of progress by admitting my uselessness and incompatibility with the modern world?  I am not going to give up and ask for help.  I’m smart enough and determined enough and capable enough to get through this.  The man in front of me was now alternately feeding his insurance card through one slot in the machine and then retrieving it as it was rejected from a different slot.  He began looking over his shoulder toward the young lady at the reception desk.  I had now been standing behind him for four minutes or so, but I was still determined to persevere and to validate my masculinity and worthiness.  The nice lady approached the man and began to help him feed his driver’s license into another slot while slapping the monitor with her shoe.  I went to the clipboard and wrote my name.  Thirty seconds later, I was called and my blood was drawn.  I knew that kiosk was a bad idea.   

 

Do you remember when TikTok was the sound of a clock, when “gay” meant happy and carefree, when “Amazon” was a river, when O.J. stood for orange juice?  Orenthal James (O.J.) Simpson has died.  What a monstrous, omnipresent and divisive episode that was in our lives back in the 1990s.  You all remember it and I don’t have to remind you, but do you also remember that the O.J. saga was the first time we ever heard the name Kardashian?  Robert Kardashian was Simpson’s friend and kind-of lawyer and father of what have now become a gaggle of media royalty that include Kim, Khloe and Kourtney.  Somewhere in that K-mart, you can also find Kris, Kylie, Kendall and Caitlyn and --- goodness, do I really care?

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Are you feeling well?  I hope so.  The weather is getting warmer and Passover is approaching.  Carol and I are going to California for Passover.  California has its own set of plagues, but it also has my middle daughter and my two youngest grandchildren, so off we go.  I will tell you all about it next week. 

 

What should we talk about this week?  Robert, a friend of mine, recommended a book to me, a memoir by Larry McMurtry that engulfs his career as a book collector and seller.  The name of the book is Books.  I looked it up on Amazon by typing B-O-O-K-S in their search window, and was rewarded with the iconic Amazon book department complete with all 33 million titles for sale.  So, once again, I typed in B-O-O-K-S.  Nothing happened.  Amazon was confused.  Maybe I need a kiosk.  So I went to the library. 

 

What do you want?  A book.

What’s the name of the book?  Books.

Do you want more than one book?  No, just one.

Then what’s the name of the book?  Books.

Who’s on first?  Yes.

 

Ok, this is getting soporific, so let’s move on.  In fact, let’s move on to the definition of our Weekly Word, soporific, which means likely to cause sleep.  Where does he come up with these words, I hear you cry.  My granddaughter wonders the same thing.  Every time she has a vocabulary quiz coming up, I help her study the new words, and she is constantly amazed that I know every one.

 

If it’s fractious, frenetic or fission

He knows every damn definition

I think he must carry

His own dictionary

Like an elderly verbal magician.

 

And speaking of words, I heard a new word yesterday.  We all believe that medical workers and first responders are heroes.  But some woman, a Governor I believe, called them Heroes and Sheroes.  Hey, I understand that female letter-carriers should not be called mailmen.  We’ve accepted that.  But most words that start with HE do not have any gender reference.  If we get a birthday balloon for a girl, is it filled with shelium?  Does the First Lady ride in a shelicopter?  Do women, when they die, go to Sheaven or Shell?  It all gives me the sheebie-jeebies.

 

Let’s end with a joke.  Do we have time for a joke?  You’re not going anywhere, are you?  Ok, here it is.  George takes Stella to a nice restaurant to celebrate their 20^th Anniversary.  During dinner, a lovely young woman comes to their table and gives George a huge hug and a sloppy kiss.  “Who was that!” says Stella with appropriate venom.  George replies that the woman was his mistress.  “What?  Your mistress?  I can’t believe it, George.  I want a divorce immediately.”  George reminds her that if they divorce, she will no longer have her Mercedes or her Country Club or her shopping sprees at Saks.  Stella is silent.  Minutes later, Stella sees a neighbor, Frank, dining with another lovely young woman.  “Who is that woman with Frank,” she asks.  George tells her it’s Frank’s mistress.  She looks again, turns to George and says, “Ours is cuter.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Parting is such sweet sorrow (Romeo and Juliet).  Did I hear him say he was going to California?  I hate when he goes away.  And I hate his jokes too.  Purr.

 

I’m sorry.  I will miss my Shakespeare.  And I’ll miss all of you for the next seven days, but I’ll see you next Thursday.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Sent comments to mfox1746@gmail.com.

 

 

 

Blog #370                                         April 11, 2024

 

I bought some cat litter for Shakespeare and had it delivered to the front door.  I’m not supposed to carry anything heavy just yet and the container weighs 20 pounds.  It’s not that far from the front door to the porch, but still.  I went to the porch and looked around.  My grandchildren used to love playing on my screened-in porch, which is still packed with their toys, but now that Shakespeare has taken over the porch, I’ve begun to throw out some of the older toys – worn, plastic contraptions with buttons and pull things that used to make noise.  I cannot bring myself to throw away the little red vacuum cleaner that Zachary (now 22) loved when he was two, but there, in a dark corner, was an old stroller that the girls used for their dolls -- faded, useless, dusty, a veteran of eight grandchildren.   It’s time to throw that old thing away.  But then an idea occurred to me.  I rolled the poor stroller to the front door, and it was the perfect size to transport the litter container out to its storage destination. It goes to show you that old and useless things, your humble servant included, need not always be discarded.  I dusted off the ancient and decrepit doll-stroller, cleaned it with some Windex and found it a nice, bright and prominent spot in the sunshine.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and getting ready for Passover, when Jews celebrate their liberation from slavery in Egypt.  Passover is when God used ten plagues to convince the Pharoah to let the Jewish people go.  I have recently begun to notice a disturbing similarity between the ancient plagues of Egypt and certain current events.  For instance,

 

·        One of the plagues God used was called murrain, a disease of livestock, and what do we have now – bird flu, which is causing poultry producers to destroy millions of chickens.

·        Egypt had darkness, and we just had a solar eclipse.

·        Egypt had hail.  Did we not recently have horrible hailstorms in the Midwest?

·        And what about locusts?  This year, 2024, will mark the Double-Cicada Emergence during which trillions (yes, trillions) of locusts will descend upon the United States.  I am not making this up.

·        Still another of the ancient plagues was the turning of the Nile into blood, and don’t we have the Middle East awash in the blood of the Israelis and Palestinians?  That’s enough coincidences for me to order an extra bowl of matzo-ball soup.

 

And what about bridges collapsing in Baltimore and all these earthquakes?  A recent earthquake in Taiwan shook large buildings off their foundations and left them awkwardly askew.  Then there was an earthquake in New York.  In 1990, if any of you remembers, there was a self-proclaimed climatologist named Iben Browning, an avuncular-looking old gentleman, who predicted that there would be a huge earthquake centered around the New Madrid fault in Missouri.  Bridges over the Mississippi would collapse, the river itself would run backwards and the Midwest would be devastated.  And all of this would happen precisely on December 3^rd.  Most people realized this Browning character was a nut, but others panicked.  Schools in five states closed on December 3^rd, and many people fled St. Louis in fear.  December 3^rd came and went, nothing happened, and everyone went back to focusing on the important news of the day – Jane Fonda’s engagement to Ted Turner.

 

I hope you didn’t mind that little history lesson.  And how about avuncular as our Weekly Word?  Avuncular means looking or behaving like a kind and friendly uncle, like a person who would have a porch full of toys. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Here is none of my uncle’s mark upon you (As You Like It).  I like all those dusty toys on my porch.  Sometimes I even curl up on that old stroller.  It’s the purr-fect size.  Meow.

 

Shakey is a good little cat.  People ask me why I chose a three-legged cat.  Well, the three-legged elephant wouldn’t fit in my car. 

 

Did you enjoy the eclipse?  I admit I didn’t give it much attention:

 

They say it’s a wonderful sight

To watch the moon blocking the light

But what’s so unique?

When each day of the week

I can watch it get dark every night.

 

How about a joke.  A Jewish man goes sailing.  Wait, that’s already funny.  Jews don’t sail.  If Jews could sail, God would not have needed to part the Red Sea.  Ok, sorry, back to the joke.  So he sails out and gets shipwrecked on a Desert Isle.  Now that sounds more like a Jewish man – lost and useless.  This schmuck is on the island for two years until, at last, a rescue ship arrives.  The rescuer says, “I see you have built three buildings out of driftwood.  A Jewish man building?  I can’t hang a picture without breaking the frame, the wall and my thumb.  “What are these buildings for?” asks the rescuer.  The guy replies, “That one’s my home.  Next to it is my Synagogue and the other one is the Synagogue I wouldn’t be caught dead in.”

 

I will now digress into a grammatical diatribe for the express reason that my Spellchecker has informed me that the above sentence that includes “how about a joke” is a question and should be followed by the appropriate punctuation.  To me, a question is an utterance that seeks information in the form of a response.  Some series of words that look like questions really are not asking for an answer.  They are called Hypothetical.  Like Who knows, or Is the Pope Catholic, or What the f**k!  

 

I am reading the part of Milton’s Paradise Lost where Adam (Remember Adam?  He was the first chauvinist.) is talking to one of the Angels.  I will paraphrase.  He says, “I understand that nature has made the woman inferior in the mind but excellent in outward appearance.”  I told you he was a chauvinist.  I guess that means he’s not going to be chosen as Joe Biden’s running mate.  I think Joe and Adam graduated together.

 

Well, you’ve put up with enough of my history lessons and strange words.  Will I be back next Thursday?  Is the Pope Catholic?  Stay well, count your blessings and watch out for locusts.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

  

 

Blog #369                                         April 4, 2024

 

I don’t know what I’m going to talk about today.  I’ve talked enough about hospitals and all that, but I would like to say that I am very lucky indeed to have so many loyal friends and followers who sent me their well-wishes for my surgery.  Thank you, thank you.  You are very nice people.  Actually, I have one more thing to say about the hospital.  They ask you a million questions.  You’ve been through it.  Do you smoke?  Do you drink alcohol?  Do you use recreational drugs?  Do you dress up like a bunny rabbit?

 

And, of course, there was a questionnaire to fill in.  It was pretty straightforward until I got to the question about gender and there were these choices:  Choose Not to Disclose, Female, Genderqueer, Male, Other.  I swear that’s the truth.  I have three questions:

 

First – What?

 

Second – What’s this Choose Not to Disclose category?  It’s your doctor.  You don’t want to tell your doctor what gender you are?  If I had a doctor who didn’t know what gender I was, I’d get a new doctor.

 

Third – Did you notice that Male was 4^th on the list?  Male is now the 4^th most popular gender?  Beam me up, Scotty.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and not succumbing to all the negative things in your life.  To succumb, our Weekly Word, is to give in to pressure, temptation, or some other negative force, and I know we all have those negatives in our lives.  Aging issues, health issues – I don’t have to list them for you.  I have them too.

 

Sometimes an old man, pushing eighty

Might think that his troubles are weighty

Don’t give in to that curse

Because things could be worse

Just be glad you’re not living in Haiti

 

The situation in Haiti is a terrible story, isn’t it?  That’s why I tell you each week to count your blessings, or, as Oscar Wilde said, “If you don’t get everything you want, think of the things you don’t get that you don’t want.”  And you think I’m confusing!  Now don’t get nervous about counting your blessings.  It doesn’t include any math. I know you don’t do math, but you’re not alone.  Four out of three people struggle with math.  Just carry the two and count your toes and trust me.  You’ll need all those toes to figure out today’s postage rates.  Did you know that today it costs sixty-eight cents to mail a letter?  Every once in a while, the Post Office even threatens to discontinue the mail.

 

People are very protective of their mail even though almost nothing of importance arrives in your mailbox any more.  Checks go directly into your account.  Bills come by email.  Nobody writes you a letter.  Even my humble blog comes to you through the Internet universe.  Still, mail is very important to us.  If, one day, we stopped getting our coupons for 20% off on hearing aids and our invitations to tour the “elderly facility”, we would take to the streets. 

 

Did you enjoy Easter Sunday?  Easter reminds me of eggs which remind me of chickens.  My oldest daughter has pet chickens and she is an advocate for Chicken Rights – The Declaration of Hen-dependence and all that.  When we go to a restaurant, she, of course, will not eat chicken, but she’ll tolerate if I eat a chicken dish, as long as they were free-range birds.  That means these high-class poultry enjoyed air-conditioning, soft beds and smart TVs with NetChicks and the Chickelodeon Network.  Then the chef chopped their heads off and cooked them in marsala sauce.  Delicious.

 

Right after Easter was April Fools’ Day.  We don’t celebrate April Fools’ Day in our house.  Carol says I’m a fool every day.  She and I did have an argument though.  She said it was Monday and I insisted it was Tuesday.  She was right, of course.  I haven’t been right since I told her O.J. was guilty.

 

I just saw Bill Clinton on the news.  He was doing some kind of fund-raiser for President Biden.  Recently, there was a nationwide vote taken to determine The Biggest Presidential Liar of all time.  Bill Clinton was voted First but claimed it depended on what the word “liar” meant.  Donald Trump was chosen Second but bragged he was First.

 

How is it possible that in a country of 341 million people, we can’t find better choices than Biden and Trump?  It might be better just to run the Lottery and, instead of giving the winner a billion dollars, make the winner the President.  It couldn’t be much worse!

 

And don’t tell me you haven’t fantasized about winning the lottery.  What would you do first?  Travel?  Charity?  Politics?  I know at that Democratic fund-raiser you could have bought three Presidents for a hundred thousand.  Maybe you’d throw the biggest party ever and invite all the famous people you always wanted to meet.  If you could meet anybody in the world, who would you choose?  Taylor Swift?  Elon Musk?  The Pope?  Whatever’s left of Oprah?  The most famous person I ever met was Donald Trump, I guess.  That’s true – met him, shook his hand.  I remember he reminded me of Tony the Tiger.  He was big and orange and he claimed that everything he did was Grrrrrrrreat!

 

Sorry, I had some things to get off my chest, and now that I’ve had that chest reduction, I’ll be back next week with some humor.  In the interim, work on your math by counting your toes. If you come up with ten, you’re fine.  If you come up with 15, you’re my cat.  Actually, that’s not true.  Cats only have four toes on the back feet, so Shakespeare has 13 toes. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears (Julius Caesar).  And if you have an extra leg, I could use that too.  Purr.

 

Looks like it’s time to go.  As I always say, stay well and count your blessings.  As Mr. Spock says, live long and prosper.  As Lester Holt says each night, take care of yourself and each other.  As the Army recruiter says, be all that you can be.  And as my wife often says, if the Queen had balls, she’d be the King.  Words to live by.  See you next week.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #368                                         March 28^th, 2024

 

Are you ready for Easter?  It’s this Sunday.  Easter is the day when every chick is fuzzy and yellow, every little bunny is cute and cuddly and every turkey is laughing because it’s not Thanksgiving.  It’s the day when 90% of Americans will celebrate the re-birth of Jesus in the spirit of goodness and cooperation and salvation to all.  The next day, they will go back to hating everybody who doesn’t vote like they do. What a world!  If it didn’t have all of you in it, I’d move somewhere else.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  I hope I am feeling well too.  You see, although you are reading this on Thursday morning, I am writing it several days before, and although you, on Thursday, know whether my parathyroid surgery went well, I don’t know any such thing as yet.   Am I worried?  Yes.  I know everybody says it’s an easy operation, but I’m as nervous as a caterpillar at an elephant square-dance and as miserable as the winner of the Moms Mabley Look Alike Contest.

 

Besides, I had to spend a lot of time coordinating which medicines I should take, what soap to use, where to be, when to be there.  It seems like most of my busy schedule is monopolized by health-care.  Seeing doctors, ordering pills, picking pills up, putting pills in the weekly organizer, arguing with the insurance company.  Well, it’s something to do. 

 

As children our job was to play

Then for decades we worked for our pay

Now we’re all up in years

And we’ve found new careers

Just dealing with doctors all day.

 

In preparation for being laid up for a few days, I went out and did whatever errands I needed – grocery, Walmart, bank, get Shakespeare’s nails clipped – all that important stuff.  I don’t mind doing errands, but this time of year, as the weather improves, the streets are full of construction trucks and utility trucks.  You can’t drive anywhere without being stopped or rerouted by rows and rows of orange traffic cones.  I haven’t seen that many cones since Yom Kippur.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Pops spends all that time dealing with doctors and pills.  I spend most of my time sleeping and sitting by the window watching the birds and the insects.  You should try it.  Today I saw two bees, maybe it was three, or was it two?  Two bees or not two bees, that is the question. (Hamlet).  Purr.

 

I just heard Carol tell Alexa to set a timer, and, as Alexa responded, I saw Shakespeare lounging on the couch.  Wouldn’t it be great if my cat would behave like Alexa?  Shakespeare, tell me the capital of Bangladesh.  Shakespeare, play some Beatles.  Nothing.  But then I don’t have much better luck with Alexa.  Yesterday, I told her to play James Taylor music.  She said, Sorry, Carol told me not to listen to you.  So there I am, with a cat who thinks I am his own personal slave, a wife who knows whose personal slave I am and an Alexa who thinks I am as annoying as a Jardiance commercial.

 

Speaking of commercials, I am so tired of that Liberty Bibberty guy.  I think he’s on television more than Hoda Kotb.  Actually, do you know who holds the official Guinness World Record for “most hours on television”?  I’ll give you a hint – it is not Johnny Carson or Walter Cronkite or Big Bird.  Answer to follow.  See, isn’t that clever?  Now you have to read the rest of this magnificent missive just to get to the answer.

 

The Olympics are coming this summer, and my clever bride has used her ingenuity to create a bunch of new Olympic Events.   There’s Synchronized Talking – Carol and her friends are the favorites and practice every day on the phone.  Then there’s Women’s Floor Exercises – participants mill around a restaurant floor looking for a round table with a view.  The world record (held by guess who) is four rejected tables in less than 60 seconds.  She’s writing a new book now to help women find the best spot.  It’s called The Queen and her Nights at the Round Table.  And, of course, there’s Women’s Volleyball, where the players wear gloves so they shouldn’t break a nail.

 

It’s getting closer to Surgery Day and I’m still as terror-stricken as a rabbi in Minnesota.  But I shall screw up my courage and remain intrepid.  And that has to be our Weekly Word.  Intrepid means fearless and adventurous.

 

Ok, now it’s Wednesday and I’m home.  The surgery is over.  Everything went perfectly and I feel fine.  We arrived at 5:30 on Tuesday morning.  The hospital complex is the size of the pentagon and harder to navigate, but we found the operating theater.  Everyone there was personable, professional and gentle during pre-op, op and post-op.  Sounds like a Coasters’ song from 1960, doesn’t it.   I love my baby, op, bop and pre-op.

 

We started surgery at 7:30. Now, when I say “we”, I mean two surgeons, two attending surgeons, a nurse anesthetist, four operating nurses, a guy from Medtronic to monitor my pacemaker and little, old me.  The room had more smart people than the entire United States Congress.  I was asleep, of course.  The surgery was over at 10:00; I woke up at 10:30 and hung around until 4:00 when they sent me home.  I was extremely happy that I didn’t have to spend the night.  You know how nights in the hospital are.  The nurse comes in at 9:30 and says, “I hope you have a restful night.  I’ll be back every 30 minutes to take your vitals and draw blood.  Sleep well.”  Thank you all for your good wishes and prayers.  It all went swimmingly, as the British say, and I feel fine.  Thank you, again.

 

Okay, the person who holds the Guinness Record for Most TV Airtime is Regis

Philbin with more than 16,000 hours.  If you guessed Hugh Downs, you were close.  He was second.  And that brings us to the end of this week’s adventure into boredom, silliness and madness.  We’ll do some more next week.  So stay well, count your blessings and come back next Thursday.  I’ll still be boring, silly and as imbalanced as a three-legged cat.  Oops! 

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #367                                         March 21, 2024

 

Last Thursday morning, a week ago, I was awakened at 7:30 by a siren.  When I say “awakened”, I’m really not so sure I was even asleep.  Half the night there’s a cat draped upon my feet or my legs or under the covers.  And my wife, of course is right next to me, although she is not as affectionate as Shakespeare at three in the morning.  Anyway, it was 7:30 when I heard the distant wailing of a siren.  The first thing that crossed my sleepy mind was that I had to get under my desk because the Russians were dropping atomic bombs on our school.

 

Do you remember that?  I do.  Blackberry Lane School, third grade, Mrs. Nevins.  She was blonde; I was eight.  Crawl under your desks, children.  That’s the safest place.  They actually made us believe that crawling under those crappy wooden desks would save us from a nuclear detonation.  And we were dumb enough to believe it.  It’s clear now that they were trying not to frighten us with the actual truth, which was that there was nothing that could keep the Russians from blasting us into little roasted marshmallows.  Still, it was the biggest lie our government told us.  That is until “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”

 

Ok, back to 7:30 am.  I cleared my head of thoughts of nuclear incineration and Mrs. Nevins and realized that the siren was a tornado warning.  And what was the first thing I did?  Did I wake my precious wife, wrap her in a warm blanket and carry her to safety in the garage?  No.  Did I find a frightened Shakespeare, cuddle him to my chest and assure him everything would be all right?  No again.

 

My first reaction to the tornado warning was to run – of course “running” at my age is really a mixture of walking, limping and groaning – into my study to send out my blog before the electricity went out.  That’s right, my first thought was to make sure you had your copy of Limerick Oyster so you could read it while my entire family was being pummeled and mangled about the skies like Dorothy and Toto.  I hope you liked it. 

 

Actually, the electricity did not go out and the wife and the cat slept through the brief rain shower that followed.  About four years ago, my three local grandchildren were at our house.  Tyler was 14, Austin was 10 and Charley Rose was 12 and a total princess-in-training:  boys, makeup, shopping, clothes, a budding apparition of her Nonnie.  We were all playing a little soccer in the hallways when a warning siren went off.  Charley was frightened and wanted to go into the garage, so we did.  The boys immediately ran outside to watch the skies and play in the rain, but my little princess climbed into the back seat of my car and curled up in fear.  I sat with her, consoling her, when she looked up at me and said, “Poppy, I can’t believe I’m going to die in these ugly shoes.”  She is sixteen now and a Four-Star Princess and still has that wonderful sense of humor.  After I had sent my blog to you, I checked my phone and there was a message from Charley: Oh no, I hope I don’t die with my hair looking like this.

 

Good morning, hi there and welcome to the start of Limerick Oyster’s eighth year.    It is officially Spring, and I am officially happy.  The cold weather of winter bothers me so much that my favorite day all winter has been Monday.  That’s the day I get my ultra-violet treatment in a vertical tanning booth at Dr. Skin’s office.   Mmmm, toasty!

 

I need the hot light on my form

To keep all my skin up to norm

Plus, to tell you the truth

In that nice tanning booth

Is the only place I can be warm.

 

The above mention of the famous Bill Clinton miss-information – yes, I know the word is misinformation with one “s”, but he was talking about a young girl and so the word “miss” is appropriate and damn, why do you put up with me at all?  Anyway, as long as you’re here, the quote made me think of an old news clipping I had somewhere.  I found it.  It read “Former President Clinton will get an advance of more than $10 million to write his memoirs.  That beats the previous record for nonfiction, held by the pope.”

 

The Pope had a book deal?  I wonder what the title was.  Here are a few possibilities:

 

          Genuflection for Dummies

          Chicken Soup for Catholics

          The Days of Wine and Rosaries

          The St. Peter Principle

 

There I go again, getting in trouble with the Catholics.  Well, it was a slow day and I was feeling as bored as Venus De Milo’s manicurist.   Even Shakespeare gets bored sometimes.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Life is as tedious as twice-told tale (King John). When I’m bored, I like to watch TV.  I watch Pet-Flix.  There are shows for dogs like Barks and Recreation and Game of Bones.  And shows for cats like Paw and Order, Carol Purrnet and Downton Tabby.  There’s even a show for three-legged animals.  It’s called The Limpsons.   Purr.

 

It's pretty much four years now since we were all hiding in our homes in fear of catching Covid.  I don’t need to remind you of all that we went through.  What Carol missed most was her Happy Hours where she and a few other “goils” would go for appetizers and alcohol.  During Covid, they tried to create their own Happy Hour on FaceTime.  The problem was that the alcohol, in conjunction with the lack of knowledge of how FaceTime worked, made it a challenge to get all four women’s faces on the screen.  Every time they figured out how to include one more, they laughed and giggled like a group of 12-year-old girls who had just seen their first penis.

 

I’ll leave you now with that salacious image and the hope that you stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Oh, and the Weekly Word, of course, is salacious, which means arousing or appealing to sexual desire or imagination.  Now I know you’ll be back next week.

 

 

Blog #366                                         March 14, 2024

 

I have watched quite a few State of the Union Addresses in my 78 years.  They all have pretty much the same theme and probably have all been written by Alan Jay Lerner.  He wrote, “It’s true, it’s true, the Crown has made it clear, the climate must be perfect all the year.”  Every year, the President, be he an R or a D, tells us what a spectacular job he has done against stubborn and ignorant opposition.  Then he promises everything:  a chicken in every pot, an electric car in every garage, better climate, lower prices, more jobs, tax the rich, yadda yadda.  It all sounds great.  President Biden, last week, even promised us more potato chips in the bag.  I’ve never heard that one before.  One thing they never talk about is how they intend to pay for all this noble largesse.

 

I’ll raise all the rich folks’ taxation

Raise wages and lower inflation

I’ll honor our flag

Put more chips in the bag

And bankrupt the whole friggin’ nation.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and remembered to change your clocks last Saturday.  If not, you’ll have to wait another hour before reading this.  Or, perhaps, you live in a place that does not change its clocks like Arizona, Hawaii, Samoa, Guam, Puerto Rico or the U.S. Virgin Islands, all of which have such lovely weather that residents never want anything to change. 

 

Last week, I promised you I would tell you the story of when I lied to my father.  But not yet; I have so many other things to talk about first.  Are you ready for Spring?  It’s March already and Spring is only a week away.  March is Irish-American Heritage Month.  It is also Women’s History Month.  Plus, I believe it’s Jeffrey Dahmer Recipe Month.  His favorite was Leg of Sam.

 

I received a text this morning from the hospital informing me that the estimated cost of my gland operation will be $28,458, but I will only have to pay $250.  This is worse than a furniture store going-out-of-business sale:

 

St. Patrick’s Day sale – get any gland removed and receive a FREE sectional.

 

 

Or a late-night television ad:  Buy a Popeil Pasta Maker for $39.99 (plus shipping and handling) and get your gland removed F-R-E-E!

 

Time for a joke.  Two senior golfers met in the 19^th Hole:

 

Hi, Bill.  What’s new?

Well, I got new dentures last week.

Oh, my, do they hurt?

Yesterday I played golf and some crazy person behind me hit a ball that hit me in the crotch.

What does that have to do with your dentures?

Well, that’s the only time they didn’t hurt.

 

I guess I have to talk about the Academy Awards.  The Red Carpet started at 3:00 on Sunday afternoon.  Who are you wearing? Who are you screwing?  Who does your hair?  Who does your toes?  Who’s your Daddy?  Who gives a flying Fitz’s Root Beer?  Did you know that one of the nominees is the first Indigenous American to be nominated?  And did you know that I am the first 78-year-old Jewish limerick writer to turn his clocks ahead 7 hours so I could pretend it was all over and I could go to sleep?   

 

I really have no interest in this cinematic folderol, but I watched it because I know all of you did.  It’s a bunch of ultra-ultra-rich people who dress in hundred-thousand-dollar clown suits, drive $300,000 cars, live in $10 million houses, fly in their private jets to Cannes for the Film Festival and believe this qualifies them to tell the rest of America how to live our lives.  It’s preposterous and embarrassing.  Why do we watch?  Because movie stars have always been the royalty that we created to replace the English royalty that we fought to get rid of.  The British have Kings and Queens and Dukes and Princesses.  We had John Wayne and Elvis -- The Duke and The King.

 

 Shakespeare wants to say hello.  Shakespeare The Cat – eleven letters, nine lives and three legs.  He’s a pistol!  Saturday will be the 4^th anniversary of Shakespeare and me adopting each other.  I got him an Anniversary cake with a frosting cat on top. Four candles and three paws.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us paws (Hamlet).  I only have three paws, but that’s enough to wave hi.  Come back next week.  My Pops likes to talk to you and I’ll have another quote.  Purr.

 

Ok, the Dad story.  My father liked to drink vodka, which he ordered by phone from a local liquor store.  He knew their number and would call every few weeks.  Remember, he was blind and living in a senior place.  His vodka order was always personally delivered by the store’s manager, a 30-year-old who apparently liked my dad.  Everybody liked my dad.  The manager would bring the order, then sit and talk for about 30 minutes.  Mostly, my dad talked about getting a lower price on the booze, but the manager stayed anyway.  What a nice young man.

 

Three or four days a week, late in the afternoon, I would visit.  I’d pour each of us a drink -- vodka on the rocks for him, chilled chardonnay for me -- and we would sit and chat.  He would never have his drink before I arrived.  And then, one day, I stopped drinking completely.  I just did.  I knew my dad wouldn’t have his drink if I wasn’t joining him, and I didn’t want to start a kerfuffle over it, so I never told him I had quit.  I just poured him his vodka and poured myself a wineglass full of water.  So I guess, in a way, I did lie to him then.

 

Weekly Word:  A Kerfuffle is a fuss or commotion.

 

Saturday, besides Shakespeare’s Anniversary, will mark the passage of seven years of Limerick Oyster.  Seven years – wow!  Will you stay with me for another seven years?  I hope you do.  For now, it’s time to find an ending to this jumbled and busy issue.  Stay well, count your blessings and may your home always be too small to hold all your friends.  See you next week to start our eighth year.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com