Blog #447                                October 2, 2025

 

Do you realize what an exhaustive effort goes into writing these blogs?  Have you ever tried writing a thousand-word essay every week?  I know you haven’t because you have very busy lives.  Me too!  I have to throw out the trash and squeeze the last droplet out of my toothpaste tube and do all my quotidian chores.  But I take this writing thing very seriously.  (That probably means there aren’t a lot of yucks to look forward to here.)

 

One chore I had to do this week was my Sirius call.  Every year, I get a message from Sirius Radio.  Your subscription expires on October 25 and we will begin to automatically bill you $23 a month.  Then I call and reach a person in the Philippines named Juanita and I tell her I’m only paying $7 a month now and want that to be my rate for next year.  She hesitates and fumfehs for a while and says she’ll have to talk to her manager and then comes back to tell me the $7 rate will be renewed.

 

This year was different.  I called and got this:  Hello, my name is Harmony, your Artificial Intelligence assistant.  How can I help you?  Harmony was wonderful, understood everything I said and renewed me for $6 month.  Very fast, very efficient, very sad.  What have we come to?  How is Juanita going to compete with Artificial Intelligence?  She’ll be out of a job.  What do we do when we make the world so wired up and efficient that no-one has a job?

 

That poor little Philippine sister

Was replaced by a sterile transistor

Now Juanita is gone

And the world travels on

Till we all realize that we missed her.

 

Artificial Intelligence frightens me a lot.  I mean machines named R2D2 and C-3PO were fine.  They were helpful and followed instructions.  But as soon as you give them human names like Harmony or Siri or Alexa, my pacemaker begins to heat up.  Remember HAL?  How’d that work out?

 

In honor of the Jewish New Year (5786) and Yom Kippur, which is today, our Weekly Word is the Yiddish word fumfeh, which means to mumble or speak unclearly.  I will try to hold my fumfehing to a minimum.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Fall is here as well as the Jewish New Year, and Shakespeare is bugging me to let him say something about that. 

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  O, call back yesterday, bid time return (Richard II).  I hear it’s the Jewish year 5786.  Those Jews think they’ve been around a long time, but we cats have been around much longer.  Do you know anybody named Katz?  They got that from us.  And, of course, we’re the ones who invented Yom Ki-Purr.

 

Thank you, Shakespeare.  I feel very simpatico with you today because I’m missing the use of one paw.  That’s because my left arm is in a sling.  On Monday, they sliced open my chest to replace the battery in my pacemaker and they don’t want me to pull out the stitches.  Please do not send sympathy cards.  A Mercedes would be nice or some Rolexes or maybe a Tiffany gift card.  Actually, I have recovered from the procedure quite easily and don’t need anything.  Well, the Mercedes maybe.

 

Speaking of sympathy cards, I visited Dollar Tree this week to buy greeting cards.  What, you think I spent $4.95 for that birthday card I got you?  Besides stocking up on some birthday and sympathy cards, I actually found a card congratulating you on your last colonoscopy which I guess is when you’re 75.  It reads: I ran into your proctologist the other day and your name came up.  He said “I never want to see that asshole again”.  Congratulations!   

 

When I approached the register to pay for the cards, there was an obnoxious young man arguing with the cashier about something.  He was rude and crude and I didn’t like him.  The only satisfaction in dealing with a young jerk like that is knowing that he has all his colonoscopies in front of him.  (Can you actually have one “in front” of you?  I guess not, but we have spent too much time on this subject, so let’s put it behind us.)

 

Do you have dreams?  I dream once in a while, and I always thought my dreams were different from your dreams.  But yesterday, I read a book where the author was describing a dream in which his dream person was in college and completely unprepared for an upcoming test.  Wait, that’s my dream!  How could he have my dream?  Does everybody have that dream?  Do you?  How about the dream where you are in a movie theater and discover that you’re naked?  Do you have that one too?  How about the one where the driver of a cement mixer gets out and beats you up?  Or the one with the tuba and the sheep?  Well, never mind about that one.

 

The other day I dropped my keys right between the two front seats – you know, the place where everything disappears forever.  I looked; I reached – nothing!  There I was, freaking out and reaching between the seats with two restless grandchildren in the back seat wondering what Oldilocks was up to.  I got out and felt under the front seat – nothing.  I pulled the driver’s seat as far up as it would go; then I went to the back seat to see what was uncovered.  Holy Buried Treasure, Batman!  There, in the revealed space formerly under the front seat, were nine colored markers, two straw wrappers, a Nilla Wafer, Jimmy Hoffa, the Cardinals World Series chances and a previously unknown Kardashian sister – and my car keys.  Whew!

 

This week we went to a charity polo match sponsored by the Old Newsboys Fund for Children’s Charities, a very worthwhile charity that helps children all over the area.  Did you know that all polo players are right-handed?  Did you know that I played water polo?  I only played once because my horse drowned.

 

Alright, I’m done with you now.  You can go back to your daily chores or dreaming about that sheep.  Just be sure to come back next week.  Please stay well and count your blessings.  See ya!

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com.

 

 

 

Blog #446                      September 25, 2025

 

A lot of people have told me that I should have my head examined!  Well, I did.  Twice!  The first time I had a CT scan on my brain was several years ago; the official result was “Unremarkable”.  Unremarkable?  Are you kidding me?  After twenty-one years of schooling, 400,000 pages of obscure and arcane books, fifteen hundred limericks – that’s all they can say about my brain?  Unremarkable?  I was insulted! 

 

Years later I had another brain scan, looking for a more complimentary opinion.  It came back “Normal”.  Normal?  Is reading Moby Dick seven times normal?  Is listening to Alice’s Restaurant every night for nine months straight normal?  Is reciting The Raven in your shorts every Tuesday morning with a brown-paper bag over your head while getting a tan normal?  There shouldn’t be much disagreement on that one.  If you missed the explanation of that, I’ll fill you in.  I go to Dr. Skin’s office every other Monday to stand in an ultraviolet light box for five minutes, and while I’m there, in my boxers with a brown paper bag over my head, I recite The Raven from beginning to end.  And this clown thinks I’m normal?

 

Some doctor who thinks he’s a whiz

Said my brain is as normal as his.

I read Moby Dick, Dude

And spout Poe in the nude,

And if that’s not abnormal, what is?

 

Hi there.  Are you normal?  I don’t think anybody who has suffered through this many of my looney-tune ramblings is normal, but welcome back anyway.  I hope you’re doing well. 

 

And speaking of Dr. Skin, I went to see her last week, and as I sat in the examination room, I realized I had forgotten to drink a lot of water.  Dr. Skin often takes blood to make sure the medicine isn’t affecting my liver or something and I have learned that it makes it easier to find a vein if I have drunk a few glasses of water.  I looked around for a cup and found one in a cabinet.  It read the following: “For Urine Samples”.  Well there wasn’t any alternative and, what the hell, in one end and out the other.  I drank three cups.  She didn’t take blood.

 

I just received my fourth butt-call of the week, all from friends.  I know my friends really well, and I’m pretty sure that some of them find it challenging to make a call with both eyes, a brain and all ten fingers.  How is it that they find it so easy to make a call with their ass?  And why me?  Is their phone programmed to call me when someone sits on it?  Is Apple trying to tell me something?

 

My wife just got a new Apple phone, the newest version with a thousand bells and whistles not one per cent of which she is likely to use.  But hey, she’s the love of my life and deserves all the comforts I can provide.  Me?  I don’t need a new phone.  I’ll just sit in the dark in my broken chair with my obsolete phone, a weathered old book, bad eyes and a three-legged cat.  It’s ok.  That’s good enough.

 

Do you know why the Apple logo has a bite out of the apple?  The story goes that Alan Turing, the man who pretty much invented computer science and the subject of the movie The Imitation Game, committed suicide by dousing an apple with poison and taking a bite.  So Apple, wanting to show their reverence for Mr. Turing, made their logo with the bite.  That was before they decided to direct every butt-call west of the Mississippi directly to me.

 

Disney is having some trouble now after suspending Jimmy Kimmel.  It’s not the first time that their decisions have engendered widespread opprobrium.  Some years ago, Disney decided it would be a nice and humane gesture to allow handicapped visitors at its amusement parks to go to the front of the line along with their families.  Very nice; very thoughtful.  Soon, families were faking handicaps or hiring handicapped strangers to pose as family members in order to beat the system and gain an advantage.  This is absolutely true.  It got so common and elicited so many complaints that Disney cancelled the program.  Thanks to the selfish and greedy, the handicapped suffered.  Yes, it’s a cruel world after all.  Everybody sing along with Mickey:

 

It’s a world of greed -- It’s a world of sin

Where the good guys lose -- And the bad guys win

Only babies and fools -- Seem to play by the rules

It’s a cruel world after all

 

No, that doesn’t count as a limerick.  You got a problem with that?  Go sit on your phone.  But it does count as our Weekly Word, opprobrium which means harsh criticism or censure.

 

Let’s talk murder.  First, there’s this Robinson guy who killed Charlie Kirk.  They have charged him with, among other things, Aggravated Murder.  The charge of Murder comes with the death penalty which, in Utah, is by firing squad.  What could possibly be more aggravating than that?  Well, I’ve found out.  The punishment for Aggravated Murder is that while waiting for the firing squad, you will be forced to watch a re-run of the 2025 Emmy Awards.

 

And then there is this Luigi Mangione guy.  We all have seen the video of him emerging from the shadows to shoot his victim in the back.  But he’s only charged with Second-Degree Murder.  I am a wordy fellow, as you well know, but I must say I have no words to explain how that’s not First-Degree Murder.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Tremble, thou wretch. Thou hast within thee undivulged crimes (King Lear).  Pops says I should be charged with a crime.  I bit him yesterday and he said I was guilty of Assault and Cattery.  He thinks he’s funny.  Purr.

 

Ok, we’ll end with some acronyms.  We all know SCUBA (Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus) and AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave), but my daughter Jennifer just told me what LOL stands for -- Limerick Oyster Laughs.  I hope you’ve had some.  Stay well, count your blessings and come back to my asylum next week.  And to my Jewish friends, Happy New Year 5786.  May it be happy and peaceful.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #445                                September 18, 2025

 

The other day, I overheard the television.  I wasn’t watching it, of course, but I overheard Jenna interviewing a facial “expert” who was instructing her audience of 30 and 40-year-old women how to avoid wrinkles.  Her advice was to stop laughing.  Preposterous!  This is why we call television a “vast wasteland”. 

 

And speaking of wrinkles, a while back I took my grandson out for dessert.  He ordered a Coke.  He was 15!  Coke for dessert?  “Yes, Poppy, I’m replacing you.”  He knows I have a Diet Coke every single morning.  “You can never replace me,” I replied.  “Sure I can; someday I’ll be old and wrinkled and drinking Coke – just like you.”  I know I’ve never been Paul Newman, but I seem to be trending toward Quasimodo. 

 

There was a time when I actually gave up Coke in protest against one of their ads in which America the Beautiful was sung in seven languages.  Is there no pride in America anymore?  Aren’t Americans allowed a heritage and a music of their own?  We have only one official language.  I don’t want to hear America the Beautiful sung in Chinese.  Try going to Paris and singing France’s national song in English.  Try going to Israel and singing Hatikvah in Arabic.  Go to Iran and sing their national song in Hebrew.  Good luck. What are these people thinking?

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come (Merchant of Venice).  My Pops has wrinkles, but I like his face.  If I rub my head against his cheeks, it feels like a scratching board.  Purr.

 

Hi, everybody, and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  Are you laughing?  Stop it!  It gives you wrinkles.  I will try not to say anything funny

 

University City is a medium-sized suburb of St. Louis with many streets named after universities – Dartmouth, Yale, Harvard, Swarthmore (hence the name University City).  My wife and I both grew up there and, in 1963, we graduated University City High School among a class of 550 happy and hopeful souls.  Each reunion or get-together of our class reveals how our numbers have been winnowed, but last weekend, about 90 of those souls congregated to celebrate the fact that we were all turning 80.  Maybe we were not as happy and hopeful as we were in 1963; maybe grateful and cautious would be more descriptive, but we were loud and talkative and happy to renew friendships that may have faded, but not disappeared.  Many of my faithful readers were there, and let me tell you something – you looked marrrrvelous!  Certainly you girls did, and yes, even though you’re 80, I can still call you girls.  And the guys – well, maybe a little less hair and a little less height, but all-in-all, not bad.  We’ll see you all at our 90^th birthday bash.  I hope we’re all there and still in good shape, but even if we’re not physically perfect, there are plenty of good rock-n-roll songs suitable for 90-year-olds.

 

Wheelin’ in the Years

Limping Jack Flash

I Wanna Hold Your Cane

Let’s Get a Physical

I’ll Be in the Home for Christmas

The Day the Bridge Group Died

 

At the event, there were pictures of previous reunions – pictures that were 30 and 40 years old.  And you know how people react to old pictures.  The women look and say, “God, look at my hair!”  And the men look and say, “I still have that shirt.”  Oh, and a shout out to that fabulous woman at my table.  You know who you are.  It was great to see you guys.

 

Weekly Word:  Winnow -- to reduce the number of items in a list.

 

Why do we remember some things and forget others?  How come I can tell you every word to every Johnny Mathis song but not where my reading glasses are?  Why can I recite all 1,085 words of the Raven but not have a clue where I ate dinner last Saturday night?  Well, at least you remembered to come back today.

 

We all have our list of medical issues.  I have mine, but I’m feeling pretty good lately.  The last time I was feeling poorly, I visited Dr. Intern.  He said I was perfect.  Then I went to Dr. Heart.  He said I was perfect.  I tried Dr. Lung and he agreed – Perfect!  Where did these people go to medical school?  Don’t they know I’m sick?  On the other hand, when I’m feeling great, like today, they find something wrong.  Oh, your calcium is high or your blood count is low.  Your brain is too tight or your pants are too loose.  Let’s add two new pills and cut this pill in half.  It’s like cooking – we add some salt and only use half as many onions and see how it tastes.  Sometimes I think they treat my body like it’s a casserole.

 

If suddenly you’re feeling crummy

Put parsley and sage in your tummy

Rub salt on your glands

And thyme on your hands

You’ll die, but at least you’ll taste yummy.

 

How did we all get this old?  I’m older than the Beaver!  What an idyllic, elysian world they lived in, Wally and the Beav.  Every day they went out to ride their bikes without supervision and without sunscreen or helmets.  They didn’t have seatbelts or gluten-free pretzels or video games or The View.  And I’m positive I never heard the Beav call his grandpa ugly and wrinkled.  Well, they probably didn’t even have grandparents.  All the old folks died off before they could become useless, unemployed, wrinkled old burdens to their family.  Yah, but I never saw anybody take the Beav to the Zoo or tell him pirate stories or sing him songs like “There’s a Dinosaur in My Diaper.”

 

That’s a song I actually wrote for my grandchildren.  They all loved it, especially when they were one or two-years-old and scooting around in diapers.  I don’t need the song now – my youngest is 12½ -- but you never know.  Carol asked me if I would ever sing the Diaper Song again, and you know what my answer was?  “Depends!”

 

Stop it.  I promised not to make you laugh.  It causes wrinkles, you know.  Please stay well, please count your blessings and come back next week. 

 

Quasimodo                     Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #444                                September 11, 2025

 

I am an ordinary man.  I am not unique.  I am not special.  Yet, last Tuesday morning, something happened to me that will never happen to any of you or to 99.99% of the world’s people.  At about 8:45, as I sat reading with Shakespeare on my lap, I heard some chimes.  And they were coming from my chest!  It scared the Beelzebub out of me and my excited, but histrionic, reaction made the cat screech and run away.  The first thing I realized was that it must be my pacemaker giving me a warning.  And then it stopped, lasting perhaps 5 seconds.  Ok, but what kind of warning was it giving me and would it do it again?  I was pretty nervous, but also reasonably sure it was telling me that my battery needed replacement.  My Dr. Rhythm had told me the battery was about to run out, but what he forgot to tell me was that my heart would start singing a tune.  Anyway, I took some deep breaths to calm myself and called the office.  “What’s your name?  What’s your date of birth?  Oh yes, Mr. Fox, we got the notification this morning and someone will call you to schedule a battery replacement.”  I informed the lady that it would have been nice if they had warned me that my aorta was going to explode into Yankee Doodle Dandy without a heads up.  She told me it would warn me at the same time every morning until it was replaced.  Great.  See you tomorrow at 8:45.

 

It went off again, same time, same tune.  Couldn’t they at least have picked something more apropos of music originating from inside your body?  How about:

 

I left my heart in San Francisco

I left my spleen in Abilene

I left my kidney way down in Sydney

I lost a tooth in old Duluth.

 

Now that’s what I call Organ Music.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Today is Nine-Eleven.  Can you believe it has been 24 years?  Twenty-four years since 9/11.  Fifty-eight years since we were married.  Thirty years since my last cigarette.  So many years!  But, we can still try to be young.  Carol and I and some of our friends try to stay young by having “fast-food” nights.  We pick a fast-food place, where mostly young people go, and go there for dinner.  This week it was Dave’s Hot Chicken.  As usual, we spent an hour and a half at this “fast” food place.  First of all, we have to read the menu, then we have to interrogate the staff to determine what options we have.  Special meals, different sauces, small fries or large, can I get the hamburger without salt, is there a coupon.  We’re a pain, but we always make the staff like us by pretending to be ignorant.  Then we wind up chatting with the manager and each other.  It fills up the night.

 

We liked the fast-food place a lot

The food was delicious and hot

We had laugh after laugh

For an hour and a half

Cause the food may be fast – but we’re not.

 

It was fun.  While we were finishing up, sitting outside, the manager came to ask how everything was and we all said it was great.  Then I said, what you need are some ice-cream desserts.  He said, “We have milk shakes.  Let me bring you some, on me.”  So we had free milk shakes.  Except for me, of course.  I don’t do milk, ice-cream, alcohol, nicotine, kale or peaches.  That’s just me.

 

Our Weekly Word is histrionic which means excessively emotional or dramatic.

 

The Zoo was delightful yesterday, but pretty empty.  I still find people to talk to – the few visitors, some of the staff and volunteers, even some animals.  I saw some flamingos, an alligator, some Galapagos tortoises, each the size of a Volvo, some prairie dogs inside their enclosure and a squirrel running free.  Before I went home, I got a soda and sat on the restaurant patio overlooking the lake and watched the pelicans.

 

A wonderful bird is the Pelican.
His beak can hold more than his belly can.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week!
But I'll be darned if I know how the hellican?

 

No, I didn’t write that.  Even though I am the King of Limerick, that one was written by Dixon Lanier Merritt, who is famous for nothing else at all.  While I was so occupied, I felt something brushing against my legs.  I looked down and spotted about five ducks, each about the size of a baked potato, looking for some fallen bread or French fries.  Those are the animals I talked to.  I said, Hi Boys, but they didn’t respond.  They were so cute, but they soon became bored with me and left to search for better pickings.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  That, as a duck for life that dives, So up and down the poor ship drives (Pericles).  He’s talking to ducks now?  What kind of crazy nutso did I pick for a Pops?  Actually, he talks to me too and I like it.  I guess I’ll keep him.  Purr.

 

I have an old car.  I like it.  I know where everything is and what everything does.  If I want something to happen, I push the right button.  If I want something different, I use a different button.  I borrowed my daughter’s new car the other day and you know what I found?  A screen.  No buttons, just a screen.  And every time I tried to turn the radio on, I activated the seat warmer.  I couldn’t get the radio to work or the A/C or the fan, and I couldn’t find how to turn off the seat warmer.  By the time I got to McDonald’s, my tush was as warm and tender as a pot roast.  I basically know only two things about cars – the pedal on the right makes it go and the pedal on the left makes it stop.  Or is it the other way around?

 

Oops, my heart is singing again.  Must be 8:45. Time to send you the blog.  I hope you enjoy it and hope you stay well.  Count your blessings and be back next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #443                                September 4, 2025

 

If you are my age, or thereabouts, and have grandchildren, I’ll bet this happens to you.  We go to babysit for a few days while the parents go on a short vacation.  We get instructions – the school bus arrives at 7:38, put out the recyclables on Wednesday, Zoey has a piano practice Tuesday night, Austin has soccer games Saturday and Sunday, there’s baba ganoush in the fridge.  What?  I always thought baba ganoush was a weapon of mass destruction.  But, ok fine, we’ve got it.  Then they ask if we have any questions and we always have the same one: “How do you turn the television on?”  Am I right?  When did we lose control of the thing we used to call “television”?  Now it’s not even called that.  It’s cable or streaming or smart-TV.  And not only are the TVs smart, but there are smart phones, smart cars, smart houses, even smart toilets.  Every time I get near something that’s “smart”, I feel dumb. When did the world pass me by?  And which clicker do I use to change the channel?

 

Futzing around with the smart TV, I somehow found myself on a Saudi Arabian station.  Go figure!  They actually have some interesting and familiar sounding programs.  Here are a few:

 

Malcolm in the Middle East               Oil in the Family

America’s Got Taliban                       How I Bought Your Mother

Sonny and Sharia                               Jimmy Camel -- Live!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  We all rely on our doctors, but did you ever think you could rely on your doctor to be a matchmaker?  My wife has a new cardiologist, and she told me one of her friends, a widow, uses the same doctor and that he fixed her up with a couple of his male patients.  You know me well enough to guess how I reacted to that piece of information, don’t you?  There’s a limerick there!  I remember when my grandkids used to ride around with me searching for Pokémon characters.  Stop, Poppy, I think there’s a Pikachu.  You knew it was there, you just had to capture it.  Well, that’s what limericks are, little ephemeral wisps hiding out in a phrase or a thought.  You know it’s there.  You know you can find it. Oops, there it is --- almost --- ok, I’ve got you.  A cardiologist being the perfect matchmaker? 

 

Well now that I’ve looked at your chart

I can see you can use a fresh start

So I’ve found you a match

He’s a pretty good catch

And I know that he has a good heart.

 

I wonder if Taylor and Travis had a matchmaker.  Probably not, it was such a perfect fit -- a simple guy who likes his girls skinny and a wholesome girl who likes her ends tight.

 

How about ephemeral for our Weekly Word?  It means lasting a very short time.

 

This year, the Zoo has installed security scanners at both of the entrances.  They work very efficiently and cause very little delay.  As I was working, in the spirit of just having a friendly kibbitz, and also perhaps to find funny things to write about, I asked one of the security officers what was the weirdest encounter he had experienced.  The security officer changed twice during my shift, so I got to ask three different people.  Here were their “weirdest things”.

 

·        A “support” lizard on the guest’s shoulder.  Security politely asked him, and his reptile, to leave.  I guess they call that “reptile dysfunction”.

·        A dozen uncooked hotdogs and buns.  Can’t explain that one.

·        A lady guard refused to tell me her “weirdest”.  She said it was unmentionable.  I guess some more reptile dysfunction.  Always fun at the Zoo.

 

That evening, I was back at the Zoo for Volunteer Appreciation Night, an annual event including dinner, awards presentations and a sea-lion show.  The star of the show was a 600 lb. male sea-lion name Robby who could do more tricks than Houdini.  It was very enjoyable.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  He smells like a fish, a very ancient and fish-like smell (The Tempest).  Wait, a sea-lion?  Are you kidding?  C’mon, Pops, which would you rather have sitting on your lap – 600 pounds of wet, fish-smelling blubber or 8 pounds of soft, adorable fluffiness?  Besides, that blubber-belly was called Robby, which is a stupid dog name.  My name is Shakespeare.  I rest my purr.

 

Tuesday was the event of the month, Senior Day at Walgreen’s.  It was a bright and festive gathering, with crowds of giddy seniors limping in the aisles and toasting their cardiologists with glasses of Ensure.  The special of the month was a weight-loss treatment called Bystrictin.  It is risk-free (they’re all risk-free) and proven (sure).  Trust me, my friends, if the product says it is “risk-free” and “proven”, stay away from it like it was sarin gas.  Believe it or not, you drink this Bystrictin, whereupon it expands to 50 times its volume in your stomach, taking up all the room so that you cannot eat as much.  Please tell me there is not a person so gullible as to buy some liquid that is going to explode in his or her stomach.  Oops, sorry!  I didn’t know you used it.  You look great.

 

A mile has 5,280 feet.  My strides are not as long as they once were, and I estimate each step to be about two feet.  So, if my math is correct – hold it, my math is always correct.  I was a Math Major at Washington University in St. Louis and a math teacher at both the high-school and Junior College level.  Not to mention the County Prison.  So what’s with this “if my math is correct” business?  Anyway, 5,280 feet divided by two feet per step means I can walk a mile in 2,640 steps.  Round that to 2,500 steps in a mile and I need to walk four miles a day to get to my 10,000.  The problem is, if I do my four miles every day for a week, I’ll be 28 miles from home.  You were waiting for that one, weren’t you? 

 

And now I bet you’re waiting for the next blog.  Sorry, not til next Thursday.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and hug your tight ends.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #442                                August 28, 2025

 

I was working at the Zoo this week, handing out maps, giving directions and trying to be jolly with the tourists, when an employee of the Zoo walked up to me.  “Thank you for bringing joy every day,” she said.  Of course, she meant that for all the volunteers, but it made me feel awfully good.  I do try to bring a little joy to the Zoo-goers, just like I try to bring a little joy to you every week.  Let’s see if I can.

 

It’s my job to know all the answers at the Zoo.  Where’s the tiger?  I know that.  Where’s the bathroom?  I know that too.  Where can I rent a stroller?  Where can I breast-feed my baby?  I know all of those.  But sometimes I get a tricky one.  I was standing by the kangaroos when a little girl saw my sash and asked this question:  How do you tell the males from the females?  I have never been accused of being slow-witted, so I bent down and answered the little girl with confidence and alacrity.  “You want to know how you tell a female kangaroo from a male kangaroo?”  She nodded.  “You take it to Nordstrom’s,” I said.  “If it buys shoes, it’s a female.”  She liked it.  Her mother liked it.  And the kangaroos hopped for joy.  Well, you really don’t want me discussing an animal’s sexual paraphernalia with adolescent girls, do you?  Suddenly I would replace the polar bear as the Zoo’s #1 predator.  And what kind of shoes would the kangaroos buy?  Kanga-Choo of course

 

Let’s do the Weekly Word.  It’s alacrity, which means a brisk and cheerful readiness to do something.  And right now, I have a cheerful readiness to say hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and looking forward to the end of summer.  I don’t know about where you are, but here in St. Louis, it was a blistering few months.  It was so hot, I saw a funeral procession drive through a Dairy Queen.  It was so hot, I saw a homeless guy carrying a sign that read “Will work for Shade”.

 

It was so hot, chickens were laying hard-boiled eggs.  You know my daughter has chickens, about 14 of them.  She told me the other day that she was cleaning out the coop and had music playing while she did.  Immediately, my warped brain asked what kind of music do chickens like?  The same brain immediately answered Rock ‘n Eggroll.  Or maybe Eggae or Yolk Songs.  And I bet their favorite song is Rock Around the Cock.  Now, that wasn’t a bad word.  That’s a rooster, but Rock Around the Rooster just doesn’t sound funny.

 

Here's a story about funerals.  Carol and I were at a party recently.  She looked at me and asked, “Is that what you’re going to wear at my funeral?”  “Yes,” I replied. “Is that the outfit you’ll wear to mine?”  “No,” she said, “I just bought the one for your funeral.  It’ll be delivered Monday.”  And I’m not even sick!  I hope the outfit gets dropped off before I do.  I think the worst part of dying is that you don’t get to eat the dessert trays.

 

Which brings up the question -- do you have a plot?  I have one plot.  It’s in a cemetery that was not too far from the place I grew up.  My father and mother and brother are buried there and there’s one extra plot.  My sister was cremated and her ashes were used to fertilize a tree, but that’s a story for another day.  So that one little oblong of well-kept dirt is for me.  Of course, Carol and I don’t live near there anymore.  We’re at least fifteen miles away, and she has informed me that she has no intention of driving that far to visit some old dead husband.  This whole burial thing is disturbing.  I don’t know what to do.  I do know what I want on my headstone.  I want a limerick:

 

For everyone life is a trial

But we’re only here for a while

And when I am gone

These words will live on

And may even give you a smile

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night (Romeo and Juliet).  I want to be buried right next to Pops.  And I want my stone to say: “Three legs, nine lives, one awesome cat!”  Purr.

 

Maybe I should buy a plot in North Carolina.  Most of my daughter’s friends think I’m dead anyway.  That could be because I actually was kind of dead for a while in North Carolina.  You know the drill – heart stops, flat-line, Code Blue, shock treatments.  I have always heard people who claim to have had a near-death experience say they remember a bright light.  Of course there’s a bright light!  You’re lying on your back in the Emergency Room with that circular spotlight shining two feet from your nose.  That thing is bright enough to wake King Tut.  So now when Carol and I are in North Carolina and we meet one of my daughter’s friends, we often get this: “Jennifer, I can’t believe this young-looking woman is your mother.”  Then they turn to me: “And Mr. Fox, how nice.  I see you’re still alive.”

 

Years before that episode, after my first heart event, the doctors released me from the hospital with a list of restrictions.  I am not making this up!

 

·        Do not operate a vacuum cleaner.  I can live with that.

·        Do not play Craps in a casino.  Something to do with standing.

·        No sex with an “unfamiliar” partner.  I presume that included the vacuum cleaner.

·        Do not lift anything heavier than Moby Dick.  The book, not the whale.

 

It has now been twenty-eight years since that attack, and I have followed those rules assiduously, although I do smile at the vacuum cleaner now and again.

 

Alright, Fearless Readers, you’ve had enough of me for this week.  I hope I brought you some of that joy I promised.  I’ll be back next Thursday.  Stay well count your blessings and come back.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com