Blog #397                                October 17, 2024

 

Have you ever been to China?  Do you even realize how big China is?  If the population of China walked past you in single file, the line would never end.  Let’s check that one out.  Let’s assume one Chinese citizen can walk past you every five seconds.  That’s 6,307,200 pilgrims a year.  For those of you who think a square root is a turnip, just trust me on the math. There are 1.4 billion Chinese and during the five seconds it takes you to meet one Chinese, three more will be born.   Just more useless information to fill up your head. 

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well today and ready for some more of whatever it is we do here each week.  A portion of what we do here is to discuss my myriad daily challenges.

 

Like doctors.  Do you ever have trouble communicating with your doctor?  The first time I visited Dr. Blood, he told me I had Monoclonal B-Cell Lymphocytosis.  I turned to him and calmly replied, “Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.”  Aha!  Now we both understood each other that neither one of us understood each other, and we proceeded to speak English.  Try it sometime.  Your doctor will get the message.  By the way, the monoclonal stuff is just some heebie-jeebie thing in my blood that nobody has to worry about.  Is heebie-jeebie a medical term?  I bet it is. 

 

The doctors spend much too much time at school learning Latinesque words like lymphocytosis.  Instead of all that medical gobbledygook, they should just spend ten years as a wife and mother.  That’s the best medical education there is.  I know you women agree.  I recently had my annual physical with Dr. Doctor.  Late that afternoon, the nurse called.  That’s always bad news.  Your heebie-jeebie test came back positive and Doctor wants you to see a specialist.  My wife, who is not just another Hostess Cupcake, got my attention and whispered, “Tell her you want to take the test again.”  What? I replied.  Take the test again?  That’s ridiculous.  She insisted, so I suggested that possibility to the nurse.  What? she replied.  Take the test again?  That’s ridiculous.  I insisted.  So, I went back in and took the test again.  Guess what?  Negative!  It’s amazing how good my wife is about medical diagnoses.  You should call her sometime.  On second thought, she charges a fortune.

 

Let’s talk about game shows.  My niece used to work as a game-show producer in L.A., and I was talking with her last week.  She told me there’s a new one coming out soon.  It’s called Who Wants to Shoot Donald Trump.  So far, they’ve had 22,312 willing contestants sign up, all of whose names have been forwarded to the FBI.  The winner will get free room and board at Leavenworth for the rest of his life.

 

In last week’s edition, I included a paragraph saying God will forgive us, but will we forgive God.  I got a fair amount of comment about that.   In the Yom Kippur prayer book, I noticed a page called “A Prayer of Protest.”  I have condensed it here, including only a few sentences:

 

Hear our voice.  All of us have seen suffering in our midst.  God, are You there?  Do You care?  Hear our pain.  Hear our grief.  Give us strength.  Help us to be kind.  Restore our faith in You.  I guess it’s all a matter of faith. 

 

I know religion isn’t my thing, so I’ll stop talking about it.  But I do know about Rock ‘n Roll.  I’ve even been thinking about starting a rock band for old people. First, we have to pick a name.  I have a few in mind: The Grand-Mamas and the Grand-Papas -- Peter, Paul and Methuselah -- The Rolling Kidney Stones -- Sonny and Wheelchair.

 

It was time this week to get Shakespear’s nails cut.  He really behaves himself well at Dr. Cat’s office, and it doesn’t take very long.  After all, they only have to trim three paws.

 

The techs at the vet are so nice

They smile while they cut his nails thrice

He has three legs, you see

So that when they bill me,

We get 20% off the price.

 

All you math wizards out there are about to upbraid me because, I hear you cry, it should be a 25% discount as one leg missing is 25% of the usual complement of four.  Am I going too fast for you?  Now, I must admit, you are mathematically correct, but 25 has three syllables and 20 only two, and the integrity of the poem is --- oh, the hell with it!  Go pick on somebody else.

 

Oh, there’s my cat.  Say hello, Shakespeare.

Cv$l’!k[do9

Well, he tried.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed (Henry VI, Part1).  I’m not afraid of getting my nails cut.  And I’m not afraid of riding in the car.  Pops got me my own car.  It’s just the right size, has holes on three sides for me to go in and out, and it’s covered on top with some scratchy stuff.  It doesn’t move, but I love it.  I call it my Cat-illac.  The only thing I’m afraid of is that, when we go for a ride, he’s giving me away to someone else.  Please don’t do that, Pops.  Purr.

 

Weekly Word:   Upbraid means to find fault with, to scold.

 

Ok, that’s enough.  We’ve talked about a lot of different things.  Maybe I should tell you a joke.  Sam, for his 70^th birthday, buys himself an expensive pair of alligator boots.  That evening, he wants to surprise his wife Sadie with his new purchase, so after dinner, he goes to the bedroom, takes off all his clothes and puts on nothing but the alligator boots.  When he walks into the kitchen, he says:

         

SAM:    Sadie, do you notice anything different about me?

SADIE: No, you’re the same old husband with the same old peepee hanging down

SAM:    But, Sadie, the peepee’s hanging down to point to my new alligator boots.

SADIE: Too bad you didn’t buy a hat.

 

Now you can go but be back here next week.  And don’t forget to stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #396                                October 10, 2024

 

Tomorrow begins Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement where each Jew asks God to forgive his-or-her sins.  And God forgives us.  My question is – Can we forgive God?  Can we forgive God for the wholesale death and suffering in the Middle East, for the disastrous forest fires and hurricanes, for the pervasive hatred that has infected our society and threatens to destroy friendships and families.  Can we?  I’ll leave that question up to you.

 

Carol and I went to Rosh Hashanah services last week, and will go to Yom Kippur services tomorrow.  I’ve probably told you that when we got married, Carol and I made a pact.  I promised to go to services with her every year and she promised to go to the circus with me whenever it was in town.  I like circuses.  Well, we have been married 57 years now, and I have gone to the High Holy Day Services every year.  She has never once gone to the circus.  It doesn’t much matter anymore because there are no more circuses.  All the clowns have moved to Washington, D.C.

 

I actually enjoy the religious services.  They foster closeness, and a feeling of community.  And the music is wonderful.  Upton Sinclair wrote, “When you hear singing you may lie down in peace, because evil people have no songs.”

 

I don’t like, however, the way they have changed some of the liturgy.  Old people do not like change, of course, but I generally can adapt.  I object, however, to the changes in the 23^rd Psalm?  Now it reads, “The lord is my shepherd; I shall lack for nothing” and “My cup overflows.”  What happened to runneth?  That’s one of my favorite words.  Changing “my cup runneth over” to “my cup overflows” is like changing Genesis to read, And God said Flip the switch.  Or how about the following:

 

·        Friends, Romans, Countrymen – listen up.

·        One if by land and two if they’ve got a boat.

·        M-I-C see ya real soon, K-E-Y why? Because Walt tells us to.

·        Frankly, my dear, who cares.

 

Hi there and welcometh back.  I hope you’re feeling well and getting ready to

celebrate Indigenous Peoples’ Day.  It’s next Monday.  You might have thought

that was Columbus Day, but Columbus, in today’s PC world, was a colonialist piece of ziti who opened up the New World to European exploitation and, as a result, has lost his eponymous day.  I have never understood why descendants of English, Irish, French, Italian, German, Russian, Polish and Swedish Europeans are called White Privileged Racists, but descendants of Spanish Europeans are called Hispanics.  Anyway, now we celebrate Native Americans, which is appropriate

 

My generation grew up thinking “Indians” were bad.  We watched Hopalong

Cassidy and John Wayne and played Cowboys and Indians and bought plastic Colt

45s.  We learned that the only good Indian was a dead Indian, except Tonto of

course.  They never told us that Kemosabe really meant Ridiculous-Looking

White Boy or that the Lone Ranger wore a mask because he had Covid.  We only got one side of the story, and that was mostly misinformation.

 

Message from Shakespeare: Made lame by fortune's dearest spite (Sonnet 37).  Hopalong?  That’s what Pops calls me because I only have three legs.  That’s ok; I still love him, but maybe I’ll start calling him Kemosabe.  He is pretty much a ridiculous-looking White boy.  Purr.

 

Last weekend, we went to a charity polo match sponsored by Old Newsboy Charities, a wonderful organization that helps children in the St. Louis area.  As we watched the polo players get ready for the first chukker, my friend Bill said, “These guys are riding 30 miles an hour on a 700-pound beast with an eight-foot- long stick and hitting a ball that’s rolling along the grass.  And I can’t even hit a golf ball that’s sitting motionless on a tee!”  I used to play polo, but I took my horse to play water-polo, and he drowned.  Ok, bad joke; I apologize.

 

Weekly Word:  A chukker is a 7½ minute period of a polo match.  That’s good to know, isn’t it?  I was going to write a limerick using chukker as my rhyme, but I decided it against it.

 

This past week marked the anniversary of the October 7^th attack on Israel.  We all pray for peace, but the circumstances do not look favorable.

 

In the lands of the sad Middle East

We pray that the fighting will cease

But although we may pray

That it all ends one day

It seems there will never be peace.

 

There was a prayer read in the holiday services last week that went:  Watch over us, we who go forth to life; watch over us, that we may come home in peace.  And we can all say amen.

 

On a lighter note, my granddaughter Charley dragged me down in her basement the other day to show me her video games.  All the kids love to play their games on the Wii or the X-Box or on their phones.  “Look Poppy,” she said, and showed me a new game character she had created.  It was called Poppy and wore a yellow shirt (my favorite color) and had gray hair.  It also had an impressive collection of wrinkles.  I turned to Charley and asked if all those wrinkles were necessary.  She examined my face closely, smiled and said, “Yes.”  That’s ok, a grandfather is someone with silver in his hair and gold in his heart.  I watched her play a game with the new character.  There he was, wrinkles and all, limping around the course and taking all the wrong exits.  Go, Poppy!

 

The grandkids, of course, don’t understand how frightening getting old is for us.  They are different; they want to get older. 

 

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to getting my driver’s license. 

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to losing my driver’s license.

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to moving into a home of my own.

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to moving into a home.

Kid:  Yay! I’m getting taller. 

Grandparent: Oy! I’m getting shorter.

Kid:  Yay! I’m growing up so fast.

Grandparent:  Oy! She’s growing up so fast.

 

Last week, I went to an antique show and someone bid on me.  Oh, well!  Stay well and counteth thy blessings.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Poppy                                      Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #395                                October 3, 2024

 

Like every one of you, I wear many hats:

 

·        I am my wife’s protector, chauffer, errand-runner, on-line shopper and returner.  One day this week, for instance, I returned to Target three shirts she bought on Monday, returned to Whole Foods three shirts she bought on Amazon Tuesday and returned to CVS a blood-pressure cuff she bought on Wednesday, put gas in her car at Costco and did her grocery shopping at Walmart.

·        I am my daughters’ father.  I supply whatever love and support I can, and always an open pair of ears to listen.

·        I am my cat’s everything – father, mother, companion, provider and playmate.

·        I am my grandchildren’s Poppy.  I try.  They don’t need me much anymore, but I try to keep in touch and support them.  They always know they can find some love here.

·        I am a friend to -- well, my friends.

·        I am, to several hundred people in St. Louis and other places, their resident wordsmith.  Need a poem for an occasion, call Michael.  Need someone to speak at a funeral, call Michael.  Besides that, I deliver 1,000 words to my daughters every Sunday and 1,066 words of humor and opinion every Thursday to you.

·        I am an Ambassador at the St. Louis Zoo, helping visitors to enjoy the Zoo experience.

·        I am my household’s manager, accountant, bill-payer, records-keeper, light bulb installer, toilet paper replacer, supply chain manager, car servicer and maintenance supervisor.

·        I am my body’s overseer.  I feed it pills, drop drops into it, spread lotions on it, take it on walks, take it to doctors and generally supervise its constant maintenance.  I have to, don’t I?  I have all those other people (and a cat) counting on me.

 

It’s all a little overwhelming to a person who basically wants to be left alone.

 

I’m recently feeling that I’m

Just running around all the time

To the store, to the Zoo

And I write blogs to you

Make it quick, make it work, make it rhyme.

                            

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and feeling hungry.  Many of my Jewish friends are in the middle of celebrating the holiday of Rosh Hashanah and looking forward to some matzo-ball soup and brisket for dinner tonight.  I am.  I have a bunch of random thoughts for you today.  Let’s start with Martha Stewart.

 

I saw Martha Stewart last week.  She was on some TV show making cakes or something.  Every time I see her, I just can’t believe she was sent to prison.  I don’t even remember what she did.  What crime could you possible send this exemplary homemaker to prison for?  Drunk and orderly?  Driving while perfect?  Baking and entering?  Assault with a deadly spatula?  I’ll bet she was the only person who ever looked good in stripes.

 

On my walk today, I noticed a little, fuzzy caterpillar – rust-colored and black, about two inches long and fat.  He was crawling along the top of a concrete barrier about three feet tall.  I stopped, took a picture and went on my way.  I came to the end of my path, turned around, walked some more and came back to the caterpillar.  He had made some progress along the barrier, but was not going to reach any vegetation in the near future.  Wait, you’re not going to get all pronoun-frazzled about a caterpillar, are you?  No, I don’t know whether it was a he-pillar or a she-pillar, but I’ve chosen to treat him as masculine because the poor thing was obviously lost.

 

Men are so stubborn about asking directions.  I see it at the Zoo all the time.  Some guy is looking over a map while his companion (wife? girlfriend? parole officer?) watches.  I walk up and offer my services.  No, the man says, I have it figured out.  I then turn toward the distaff half and say, “Men never accept directions.  Come see me when you’re lost.”  C’mon, men, you know I’m right.  We never take directions. “Siri be damned, I know how to get there.”  Really?  You don’t know where your reading glasses are.  You barely know where the bathroom is.  And how many times have you lost your car in the parking lot?  We, as husbands, have learned how to say yes to everything.  Yes. Dear.  Yes, Honey.  Whatever you want, Cupcake.  Except, “Let’s ask directions.”  We would sooner be spayed than ask directions.  I’m a man!  I know what I’m doing!  And what do we do when we finally and inevitably get lost?  We start yelling at our wives, as if they had anything to do with our galactic idiocy.  I’d better stop; my wife is calling.  Yes. Dear.  Yes, Honey.  Whatever you want, Cupcake. 

 

Anyway, I picked up the lost little caterpillar and laid him in the grass.  As Martin Luther King said, “The time is always right to do what is right.”  Besides, I like little fuzzy things.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin (Troilus and Cressida).  I am very glad he likes little, fuzzy things because I’m little and fuzzy too.  Actually, I think he likes any creature that starts with C-A-T.  Purr.

 

It’s time to go now.  I have been obnoxiously loquacious enough for one Thursday.  Loquacious, our Weekly Word, means talking a great deal, and I certainly confess to that.  This week, I have talked about hats and caterpillars and Martha Stewart, probably a lot more interesting than shoes and ships and sealing wax. 

 

Actually, in continuance of my loquacity, the “shoes, ships, sealing wax” reference is from Alice in Wonderland:

 

The time has come,' the Walrus said,

      To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —

      Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot —

      And whether pigs have wings.'

 

Alice also contains a caterpillar, a Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar actually, who instructs Alice how to use the mushroom: “One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.”  Wouldn’t that be a helpful little thing to carry in your pocket?  The Caterpillar also gives Alice advice: “Keep your temper”, he says.

 

Did you watch the Vice-Presidential Debate?  Here’s what I think.  We should get rid of Harris and Trump and let these two guys be Co-Presidents.  Alright, folks, now it’s really time to go.  I have to go return something Carol bought.  Stay well, count your blessings and keep your temper.  I’ll see you next week.

 

The Walrus                               Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #394                                         September 26, 2024

 

I lay in bed this morning very still.  I was comfortable, neither cold nor warm, and I had nowhere to go, nothing special to do.  Every day is pretty much the same when you’re retired.  It was so quiet I could hear my beard growing, so I lay there and I thought:  Why stir things up?  If I get up and start moving things like my eyeballs or my knuckles or my tongue – well, anything could happen.  Every morning at this time, I feel like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz.  Oil can, oil can, he begged Dorothy, and that’s exactly what I need -- a few squirts of oil to loosen up my parts.  Now I’m up and the sun is shining and everything seems to be fine.  Now, if I only had a brain.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling chipper.  Happy New Year to all my Jewish friends and readers.  In the Jewish calendar, we will soon enter the Year 5785.  The Jews have certainly been around a long, long time.  Maybe that’s why the matzo is so stale.  It seems like only yesterday when Moses and I were discussing those commandments.  I begged him to include Thou shalt not argue with your wife as one of the commandments, but he rejected it.  As Will Rogers said, “There are two theories to arguing with a woman.  Neither works.”  I also tried to get him to include Thou shalt not slice, but he rejected that one too.  I was talking about golf, but Moses thought I was talking about circumcisions.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? . . . If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?”  (Merchant of Venice).  I am a Jewish cat, I suppose.  I celebrate Puss-over and Yom Ki-Purr, and I’m studying for my Cat-Mitzvah.  But I still think the matzo is stale.  Purr.

 

The news today said police are looking for John Smith (or something) who is missing.  He is driving a white Camaro with Illinois plates and is suffering from “bi-polar disorder”.  So if we see him, contact the police, yadda yadda.  So, bi-polar disorder – what is that exactly?  Are we looking for a guy with two white bears in the back seat of his white Camaro with Illinois plates?  Or am I looking for a guy with two poles stuck into his posterior?  I need more information.

 

Do you believe what you hear on TV nowadays?  Voting by mail is bad.  Voting by mail is good.  Trump is a danger to democracy.  Kamala will destroy the country.  Melania has bad boots.  Kamala has good boots.  It’s Israel’s fault.  No, it’s Hamas’ fault. They’re eating dogs in Ohio.  What?  It just depends on what channel you watch, doesn’t it?  But this kind of misinformation has been going on forever.

 

Take The Gift of the Magi for instance, that heart-wrenching short story by O Henry. You know the plot.  A young married couple is very much in love but also very much in poverty.  For their first anniversary, she wants to buy him a silver chain for his only possession, a cherished pocket watch.  But she has no money, so she cuts her long, beautiful hair and sells it to a wig maker to get the money for the chain.  Meanwhile, he wants to buy her a set of large ornate combs for her long hair but all he has is the watch.  He sells it and buys the combs.  A classic and sad tale.  But wait – there’s the misinformation.  It’s not sad at all.  Not one bit.  Just fast-forward six months.  The girl’s hair has grown back and she still has the combs.  Plus, she returned the silver watch chain and got her money back.  So now she has her long hair and the combs and a fist full of money.  She is no longer penurious.  And the boy, the poor dumb schmuck, he doesn’t even know what time it is.  But he’s happy.  He has a loving wife with a bunch of money and beautiful hair – and big combs.

 

Our Weekly Word today is penurious, which means poor, poverty stricken.

 

I love animals; you know that.  But these Canada Geese are a pain.  It’s the season now for them to arrive, and they’re messy and loud.  There was a screeching gaggle of them in my subdivision just the other day, and I had to yell at them:

 

What’s going on?  What is the riot?

Why is it you birds can’t keep quiet?

I’ll fix you one day

Turn you into pâté

And go on a goose-liver diet.

 

Do you like cucumbers?  Now there’s a non sequitur for you.  A non sequitur is a statement that does not logically follow the previous argument or statement.  I don’t like them – cucumbers, not non sequiturs.  Why is it that some people like cucumbers and some don’t?  Animals aren’t like that, are they?  Do you think there’s a lion somewhere that doesn’t like wildebeest?  Hey, fellas, I’ll pass on the gnu tonight.  I think I’ll have a salad.  They just don’t agree with me.  No gnus is good gnus.  Or a chimp that doesn’t like bananas?  Too much sugar there, Cheetah.  I’m cutting down on the carbs.

 

A stockbroker called me this morning with a hot new stock.  It’s Polar.com.  He kept saying Buy Polar!  Buy Polar!  I asked if he had a white Camaro with Illinois plates.  He said Buy Polar.  I think it’s the guy.

 

Carol and I (or, as I sometimes like to say to my friends from Arkansas, me and the missus) had dinner outdoors at a friend’s house and they had dug up some old pictures of us – 40 years old.  I can always predict what people will do when they see pictures of themselves from decades ago.  The women will always say, “Oh my God, look at my hair!”  And the men will say, “I still have that shirt.”

 

Well, I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome.  Besides, I have to go find that shirt, so Shakespeare and I will say goodbye for now, but we’ll be back next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.  Nos vemos la próxima semana. That’s Spanish for “Buy Polar.”

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #393                                         September 19, 2024

 

Recently, Carol and I went out to eat at a capacious and fancy French restaurant.  I don’t love French food, and I had a yen for something simple, something Italian, maybe Chicken Cacciatori.  I tried to see if they would make it for me, but the haughty French waiter looked at me like I had ordered warm white wine.  I insisted, poetically:

 

Well, thank you – yes the wine is nice; the menu is quite charming

I’ve read it but I notice the selection is alarming

I cannot find the food I want, Monsieur, so here’s the story

Just go on back and have them make me Chicken Cacciatori

 

I don’t care if it’s registered or pampered or free-range

I will not be adventurous – I do not want to change

No cous-cous please or other grain that’s in that category

Just one clean plate upon which lies some Chicken Cacciatori

 

No chutney please or tofu or persimmon ratatouille

No Anjou pears, kumquat beurre blanc or bias-sliced andouille

I do not want it fried or poached, Marsala or Tandoori

Just plain old simple, unexciting Chicken Cacciatori

 

I do not want a salad made of baby backyard weeds

In fact I’m pretty mad ‘cause you’re not listening to my needs

I’ll slice you up and send your bones on to a crematory

If you don’t bring me what I want – some Chicken Cacciatori!

 

Sorry for that lyrical nonsense.  I’m not sure why I did it. Kapka Kassabova said, “Perhaps you don’t always have to know what you’re doing or why, just that you have to.”

 

Hi there and welcome back to your refuge of insane humor and general goofiness.  You’re Special!  That’s what the little pamphlet that was hidden in my library book said.  It went on with some religious stuff, and that’s ok, but it was just nice to be told that I was special.  So, listen up – you’re special.  You take the time each week to read my silly ramblings and that makes you special to me.  What should we talk about today?  How about our Weekly Word?  Capacious means roomy, having a lot of space inside.

 

Have You Noticed that each day seems like every other day?  I can only tell what day it is by looking at my pill-box.  If Tuesday is the last empty cubical, then it’s Wednesday.  Of course, you can always tell when it’s Thursday, because here I am.

 

Have You Noticed that every week there is a drug bust where the Police find $400,000 in cash and $500,000 worth of drugs in a car that was pulled over for not replacing a $29 tail light?  Maybe the drug dealers should use Uber.  Or maybe we should just make drugs legal.  It would save police resources and reduce the prison populations.  I can just see the mega-retailers lining up now. 

 

                   Drugs R Us                     Pot Barn

                   Crack in the Box             Quik Trip

                   Meth A. O. Schwartz       Containers and Morphine

 

Have You Noticed that the mail is pretty much all junk?  Cruise-line catalogs, hearing-aid ads, health insurance promos, invitations to wealth-management seminars. My mail today consisted of two pieces, and this is the absolute truth – one was a large envelope addressed to me with the return-address spot filled by large, black letters spelling out DONALD J. TRUMP.  The other was a similar envelope, similar size, same large, black letters, but these spelled KAMALA HARRIS.  I cut out the Trump name and mailed it to Kamala and mailed Harris’s name to Trump.

 

Doesn’t it seem that the world is getting crazier all the time?  I just want to hide in a cave and shield myself from it all.  I want to read and talk to you all and play with Shakespeare, but the world is too much for me.  I want my psychiatrist back.  I had one in 2007.  I’m not even sure he was a psychiatrist, maybe a psychologist, but he helped me stop drinking and stop listening to Alice’s Restaurant and I enjoyed talking to him. 

 

Do you know who the first psychiatrist was?  It was Snow White.  It’s true!  Snow asked her first seven patients if they were Happy.  Only one of them said yes.  Well, she felt sorry for them and asked all seven to come live with her.  Snow was a little kinky.  Her house was tiny, so to fit them all in she used one of her Snow White Privilege magic potions to make them smaller, turning them into dwarfs.  And that is why, to this day, psychiatrists are called shrinks.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  That way madness lies; let me shun that (King Lear).  The world must be crazy.  Is it really true that, in some place called Ohio, people are eating cats and dogs.  Dogs I can understand.  They can make them into German Shepherd Pie with collie-flower.  Or maybe Poodles Romanov.  But cats?  No way.  The only thing cats are good for is Chicken Cat-Ciatori.  But Pops?  He definitely needs a psychiatrist.  He’s as messed up as an un-opened jigsaw puzzle.  Purr.

 

It's time for a Covid booster.  We have always gotten ours at the CVS in Target, so I went there today.  I approached the nice, young pharmacist and played the POP Card.  That stands for Pitiful Old People.  I explained that I’m not really good at getting an appointment online, and maybe he could just make me an appointment himself.  The POP Card worked, and we got our boosters.  He was as nice as could be.

 

Have You Noticed that anytime a Democrat dies, he-or-she was a Cultural Icon, but anytime a Republican dies, he-or-she was a Controversial Figure?

 

Well, I am certainly a controversial figure, as many of you have stated in your comments (I love your comments), so I’ll stop now and let you put me in my place.  But not before telling you that today is National Butterscotch Pudding Day.  Sounds yummy.  It is also National Talk Like a Pirate Day. Would I lie to you?  So hark, me buccos: 

 

Be takin’ me threat to the bank

Ye’ve just got yer own self to thank

If yer out drinkin’ grog

Stead of readin’ me blog

I’m makin’ ye all walk the plank.

 

I guess you’d better stay well, count your blessings and come back to see me next week.  Arrgh!

 

Blackbeard                               Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

LIMERICK    OYSTER

Blog #392                                September 12, 2024

 

Carol and I watched a lot of the US Open tennis during the last two weeks.  It was very entertaining.  But there’s something that aggravates me.  The chair umpire -- you know, the person who sits on the chair and calls out the score as if there weren’t huge scoreboards everywhere.  Well, I’ve noticed for years now that those umpires always have a foreign accent, maybe French or something else.  That pisses me off.  It’s the US Open, and the US, for those of you who spent the first 18 years of your life under a man-hole cover, stands for United States, and we should not have to settle for some ersatz substitute chair umpire.  We have 330 million people here.  Some of them actually speak English, and it seems like we could find a few who could say “forty-thirty” without having it sound like some kind of custard dessert.  Have you ever heard a chair umpire at the French Open with a German accent?  Or, God forbid, an American accent?  The French would sooner whitewash the Mona Lisa than to have an American chair umpire at the French Open.  Stand up, People, it’s the US Open.  Have some US people as chair umpires.  Jeesh!

 

Apology #1:  Excuse me for using “man-hole cover”.  I guess it should have been “person-hole cover”.  Jeesh!

 

And besides, what’s with not allowing the Russian players to say they’re from Russia?  They know they’re from Russia.  We know they’re from Russia.  We’re not stupid.  But the Tennis World has decided to punish Russia for the war in Ukraine or for doping their athletes or for colluding with Trump again.  Whatever it is, the Russian players are not allowed any letters after their names.  A German player has GER after his or her name, an American has USA, a Spaniard has ESP, an Israeli has ISR (except at the French Open they put JEW). But a Russian player must suffer the sins of its motherland by not having anything.  No letters, no RUS, nothing.  They let the Russians play, but punish them like 4^th-graders – nya, nya, nya, nya you don’t get no letters.  It’s juvenile; it’s imbecilic; it’s ridiculous.  Like allowing French umpires at the US Open.

 

An American woman made the finals in the tournament, as did an American man, but they were both underdogs and both lost. 

 

Apology #2:  I called the female tennis player an underdog.  I wonder if a female underdog should be called something else.  Would it be an under-bitch?

 

A female boar is a sow

A female bull is a cow

From warlock to witch

Underdog -- under-bitch

And boy, I’m in big trouble now.

 

Under-bitch.  I think I just invented that word.  Well, who else would be that stupid?  But I did not invent our Weekly Word, ersatz, which means an artificial and inferior substitute or imitation

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  I am.  Yes, I am officially declaring myself done with pneumonia and am back to my – well, I almost said normal life, but any of you who think I’m normal has more screws loose than I do.  Once again, I thank you all for the good wishes and advice and love and support you’ve given me the last five weeks.  It helped a lot.

 

Have you noticed that every time you go to a doctor’s office, they take your temperature?  When I was little, the nurse would stick a glass tube up my you-know-what.  Later they graduated to putting the glass tube under my tongue.  Gee, I sure hope it wasn’t the same glass tube.  Now, they just wave some gizmo at me and tell me my temperature is 37.  I know that’s Centigrade, but I wonder why.  I’m not in France or Nepal or Abu Dhabi.  I’m in the USA, where the meteorologists tell us the forecast in Fahrenheit.  Where every recipe, every oven, every toaster contraption is calibrated in Fahrenheit.  Where water freezes at 32 and boils at 212.  So why is the nurse trying to confuse me?  If the medical community wants to conduct its affairs in the Wonderful World of Metric, great.  I don’t care.  But I would like to know what my temperature is.  Being a math nerd, I can do the conversion (9/5+32), but what if I couldn’t or if I made a mistake?  Then she told me my weight was 71.  Now that I didn’t mind.

 

Did you watch the Debate?  Of course you did.  The debates are useless.  We know who these people are; we know what they’ll do.  Do we watch so we can hear about their energy policy or the border?  No, we want to sit there and scream at the one we hate the most.  You liar!  You fool!  I hate you!  I hope you make mistakes and look like an ass and fall down and have a stroke!  The debates are an anachronistic and hateful display of schadenfreude and a waste of time.  Carol made popcorn.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns (Henry VI, Part 3).  They don’t even need this election.  Just make me the King.  I would make life so simple.  Sleep most of the day.  Stay up at night and watch the stars.  Eat salmon pâté out of a can.  How much trouble could we get into if we all did that?  Purr.

 

Speaking of the border, there is an old story about a kid who rode his bike across the US-Mexico border every Friday.  The guard searched him every time, but never found any contraband.  “Why do you always search me,” the kid asked.  “I know you’re smuggling something,” replied the guard, “but I just can’t find it.”  Years later, the guard, now retired, ran into the kid, now grown, in a bar.  “Look,” he said, “it doesn’t matter anymore, but I still think you were smuggling something.  What was it?”  “I was smuggling bicycles,” he replied.

 

Apology #3: Yes, Dear, I’m sure it was my fault.  I’ve used that one so many times, I say it in my sleep.  But I won’t apologize for this week’s blog.  It’s the real thing, not some ersatz counterfeit.  So stay well, count your blessings and be here next Thursday for sure – we need to talk.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com