Blog #498                                September 24, 2026

 

Our cell-phone monthly service bill is charged to my credit card, but I wanted to change it to a different card.  The odds of my doing that by myself were about the same as my performing brain surgery or cooking a souffle or winning a gold medal for figure skating (I can’t skate).  So I did what I do best – I begged for help.  I drove to the Spectrum Mobile store.  They open at 10.  I arrived at 10:01.  That’s what I do.  A nice young man named Joe asked if he could help.  Now, I did not want to become engaged in an imbroglio with him, so I just said, “Joe, I am 117 years old and have only one brain cell left, and it doesn’t do apps.  Can you help?”  Joe fixed it all up for me in about nine minutes.  So it was 12 minutes to drive there, plus 9 minutes to do it and 12 minutes back.  That’s 33 minutes (my last brain cell can add) to do something it would have taken me hours to figure out.  Thanks, Joe.

 

I just am not good doing apps

I’d do better by just shooting craps

When I give it a spin,

Open up and begin

My computer just starts playing Taps

 

I cannot fathom how the human brain works, especially my own.  Why, for instance, while driving home today did I suddenly realize that Peter Piper could not possibly have picked a peck of pickled peppers?  Wikipedia estimates there are 50,000 different kinds of peppers.  Fifty thousand!  There are pimiento peppers, tabasco peppers, cayenne peppers, chili peppers, paprika, jalapeno, banana peppers and of course the common green pepper.  Did you know that green peppers, like green tomatoes, are just unripened bell peppers?  But here’s the thing: Peppers do not grow already pickled, so no one can pick a pickled pepper, any more than one could pick a stewed tomato or a pumpkin pie.  Even Peter Piper could not pick a pickled pepper, let alone a peck of them.  Case closed!  I sometimes frighten myself.

 

But I apparently don’t frighten you, because you’re back and I’m glad.  Hi there and welcome.  I hope you’re feeling dandy and are ready for more of my methodical madness.  Let me explain the comment I made earlier that I can’t skate.  I have three daughters.  When they were 12, 11 and 5, they begged me to take them ice-skating at a local rink.  It was Saturday and there were special activities going on.  They rented some skates and got out there on the ice.  I watched.  I had never ice-skated.  All of a sudden, I hear, “Dad, c’mon, the skates are free.  C’mon, c’mon!”  I could never say no to them, so I got some skates and stepped onto the ice.  I was terrible.  I fell three times.  My daughters were so embarrassed, they abandoned me about halfway around the rink, hanging onto the siderail.  Then the lights started to flash and the loud speaker spoke loudly; “Please exit the ice; the show will start in two minutes.”  Show?  Everybody left the ice.  Except me.  I began to pull myself feverishly along the siderail trying to reach the exit gate before anyone noticed me.  I failed.  There I was, the only person left on the ice, a silly fool who couldn’t skate, struggling to hide himself somewhere.  The show started.  Costumed skaters flowed onto the rink and began their intricate dances and leaps.  I was still out there, pulling myself around.  Everyone was hysterical.  I finally made it to the gate and exited to a raucous mix of laughter and applause.  I was horrified.  To this day, I have never again put on ice skates. 

 

Let’s talk about dogs.  My friend took her support dog to a movie.  Really!  I think she saw Crazy Rich Afghans.  Maybe it was Jurassic Bark or Raging Bulldog or Paws! or The Good, the Bad and the Shar Pei.  I could go on forever, but I know you have places to go and people to see, so let’s move on.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  “The cat will mew, and dog will have his day (Hamlet).”  Why does he always talk about dogs.  Silly, stupid dogs!  I am his best pet and his closest friend.  Cats like movies too.  I like Cat Ballou, The Color Purr-ple and Apocalypse Meow.  Purr.

 

In the absence of anything else interesting to talk about, there is always something medical going on in my life.  Last week I went to Dr. Skin.  Something was bothering me on my back and I wanted someone to look at it.  She did and told me it was Stoopi-goopi Poppi-noppi-cozitis, or some such mumbo-jumbo.  Have you noticed that doctors tend to speak in a language intelligible only to other doctors so as to impress us ignorant laymen with their profound intelligence?  I think they learn it at Jabberwocky class.  Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwock, as you know, is famous for words like slithy tove, mimsy, borogoves and mome raths.

 

Sounds just like a doctor!  “Yes, Ma’am, you have an enlarged Mome Rath.  But your borogoves are normal.”  Anyway, whatever was on my back is no more.  She froze it off and told me I didn’t have to worry about it.  It was only a mimsy.  Maybe the O-B should come out and say, “Congratulations, it’s a slithy tove!”

 

And speaking of doctors, I visited a friend in the hospital and stayed about three doctors.  That’s how you measure time in a hospital, by counting how many different doctors come to your room.  First was the Hospitalist from China, then the Pulmonologist from Iran and the Cardiologist from India.  They’ve changed the inscription on the Statue of Liberty, you know.  It now reads Give us your tired, your poor, your Anesthesiologists.  There’s one thing that’s comforting about having Asian doctors.  You know they graduated at the top of their class.

 

Weekly Word:  Imbroglio is a good word.  It means a complex dispute or argument.  And with that, it is time to go.  This week marks the beginning of Autumn.  So please have a good Fall.  No, wait, I don’t mean I want you to fall.  Don’t ever fall, stay well, count your blessings and come back to me next Thursday.

 

The Jabberwock             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #497                                September 17, 2026

 

Happy New Year to all my Jewish readers.  It is the Year 5787 of the Hebrew Calendar.  God, why, when You made us Your Chosen People, did you also make so many people who hate us?  You must have had a reason, but I am too humble and it is not for me to know.  We pray for a better tomorrow.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  God shall be my hope (Henry V).  Pops is Jewish and Nonnie is Jewish, so I guess that makes me a Jewish cat.  You can call me Katz.  And this is my favorite holiday – Yom Ki-Purr.

 

Ok, let’s move on to what Limerick Oyster is all about – to give you a smile every week, to teach you a new word, to let you talk to my cat.  And also, to tell you what ticks me off.  Last week it was stamps with flags on them and the Lindsay Clancy trial.  This week it’s tennis.  I was watching the men’s semi-final at the U.S. Open Tennis Championship, when I noticed the Chair Umpire was a woman from France.  FRANCE!  We have 350 million people in this country.  Can we not find an American to umpire at the US OPEN?  France has a tournament too.  But France would no sooner allow an American to umpire their tournament than they would rename the Eiffel Tower and call it the Trump Tower.  I mean, what does the umpire actually do?  The machines call the lines and keep the score.  The only thing the umpire says is, “Let, first service.”  With a French accent!  We need to get an American to umpire the American tournament!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Are you still with me?  Stick around, I’ll calm down eventually.  I hope you’re feeling well and ready for Fall.  It’s September already, and that means the schools are open and the elections are only two months away.  Who are you going to vote for?  How can you tell?  If you watch CNN you get one set of facts, but if you watch FOX you get a different set.  It’s like going to a baseball game where all the Cardinal fans thought the guy was safe but all the Cub fans thought he was out.  And all the white folks thought O.J. was guilty while all the black folks thought he was innocent.  I’m not sure truth has any meaning anymore.  But then your truth might not be the same as mine.

 

Don’t listen to their candidate

In the “What Two and Two Is” Debate

He’ll use dirty tricks

To convince you it’s six

When everyone knows that it’s eight.

 

William Blake said, “the tree which moves someone to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way.”  We look at things today with such radically opposed points of view, it’s amazing that we haven’t started another Civil War.  Except, after listening to all the hate-filled and profane rhetoric on both sides, we’ll have to call it The Uncivil War. 

 

There will be some differences, however, between the old war and the new. That old one was between the North and the South; this is between the Left and the Right.  That was between the Blue and the Gray; this is between the Red States and the Blue States.  In the Civil War, both sides had guns.  In the Uncivil War only one side has guns.  Now that’s an interesting thought.  But it’s ok because the other side has poster-board and magic markers.  There’s even a new Japanese car especially designed for sign-carrying protest marchers with special compartments for cardboard and crayons.  It’s called the Toyota Crayola.

 

In 1839, Edward Bulwer-Lytton coined the phrase the pen is mightier than the sword.  I’m not sure, however, that the crayon is mightier than the AK-47.  If it gets any worse, I might have to leave the country.  Maybe I’ll go to California.  That’s not part of America anymore, is it?

 

And speaking of voting, our Congressional representatives tend to be disappointing, don’t they?  As Will Rogers said, “Taxpayers are sending Congressmen on expensive trips abroad. It might be worth it except they keep coming back.”

 

That was the third obscure person I have quoted so far.  No more, I promise!  You might begin to think I’m not clever enough to write my own lines.  Let’s talk about my family.  My family was a bizarre anomaly.  I have spoken about my older brother many times in my blogs.  He was one of the strangest people I have ever known.  And my sister married an older guy.  She was 47 and he was 92.  It’s a long story, but absolutely true.  My sister was crazy -- half Baby Jane and half Sybil.  In fact, when I was growing up my family made the Addams Family look like Ozzie and Harriet.  It’s a miracle I turned out so perfectly normal!  The man she married was named Bill, and he was so old, he told me the first president he had voted for was McKinley. One time Bill told me that he was in the hospital recuperating from something when a member of the clergy visited his room to offer prayers for a speedy recovery.  The clergy person asked if there was anything else bothering him, and Bill responded that yes, he did have a problem.  He was constipated.  So the clergy person scribbled a prayer for him.  This is all true!  I was hysterical.  A prayer to relieve constipation?  This must be a joke, but no, I looked it up.  Here are some of the highlights.

 

The Lord is my shepherd

His figs and his prunes, they comfort me

He preparest a table in the presence of mine enemas

He restoreth my stool.

 

And, as you know, when I start talking potty, it’s time to go.  At least I didn’t talk about anything runnething over.  But I do need to talk about anomaly, our Weekly Word.  An anomaly is something that deviates from the standard, normal or expected.  Like me.  There, now I’m finished.

 

Please stay well, count your blessings and be regular.  I’ll be back next week.  Can you wait that long?  And whether it is 5787 or 2026 on your calendar, may you have a happy and peaceful week

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #496                                September10, 2026

 

I am going to start this week with the Weekly Word, even though I haven’t used it yet.  The word is pontificate, which means to speak in an annoyingly pompous and dogmatic way, a practice in which I am expert.  Don’t worry, the word will show up later.  But for now, let’s talk about stamps.

 

I went to the Post Office to buy stamps.  Eighty-two cents.  For those of you around my age, we remember when postage was three cents.  For those of you a little older, you probably remember just feeding the pony some hay and sending it on its way.  When I asked for stamps, the young man at the counter asked me if “flags were all right”.  “Are flags all right?” I gasped. “Do you have to ask if flags are all right?”  He said, “Well, some people don’t like them.  It’s a political statement.”

 

I thanked the young man, walked to my car and sat inside for a while thinking.  I’ve lived in this country for 80 years.  I’ve had the opportunity to work, save, invest, buy a house, raise a family – and vote.  I’ve voted for sixty years.  Sometimes my favorite candidate won, sometimes not.  But I got to vote in a country that elects its leaders, good or bad.  And all this time, we’ve had a flag.  It was the same flag under Biden as it is under Trump.  It was the same flag under JFK and Ronald Reagan and Barack Obama and George Bush.  It’s the symbol of this country that has allowed us the opportunity to grow, to succeed or even to fail.  I’ve had successes and plenty of failures, believe me.  But I will always support the country and the flag that is its symbol.  “Yes,” I told the young man.  “I want the stamps with the flag on them.”

 

And by the way, in my lifetime, we have elected Democrats nine times as President and Republicans eleven times.  So both sides have contributed pretty evenly to where we are today.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Are you still here?  Good.  I hope you are feeling well and staying away from doctors.  Do you realize that if you forget your birthday, you can never receive any medical services?  Every time I encounter a doctor, nurse, technician or office staff – they ask for my date of birth.  Over and over.  The person who drew my blood last week -- a nasty, evil-looking, vampiric creature – must have asked me four times.

 

The Nurse I call Lady Macbeth

Asked my date of birth with each breath

It’s ok - I let her

It’s surely much better

Than asking for my Date of Death.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  To me, fair friend, you never can be old (Sonnet 104). Nobody knows my birthday, but Pops celebrates it in April.  I think I’m seven years old now, but it doesn’t matter because they say cats have nine lives, which is fine with me as long as I can spend all of them with my Pops.  Purr.

 

I have told you many times that I know nothing about cars or anything else mechanical.  I only know about useless stuff – like Edgar Allen Poe or chemistry.  Here’s some chemistry:  Two hydrogen atoms meet. One says, 'I've lost my electron.' The other says 'Are you sure?' The first replies, 'Yes, I'm positive.'  See?  Useless!

 

Carol and I went shopping at Nordstrom’s.  Well, Carol was the shopper.  I was the chauffer-companion and carrier of packages.  She was looking for some jeans, but when we checked out, she commiserated with the young sales clerk that all they were showing were baggy-leg jeans.  She asked the clerk if she had sold many of them.  “No,” she replied, “and I tried some on and they made me look ridiculous.”  Let me describe the young clerk.  Her legs were all tattooed up and down; her hair was bright pink, and there was enough hardware hanging from her nostrils to crack a safe.  And she thought the jeans made her look ridiculous?

 

Well, I guess we all have succumbed to the fashion of the day.  I think the silliest men’s fashion statement I tried was the medallion.  I guess it was the early 1970s and we would wear a sport coat over a turtleneck with a heavy medallion hanging from a chain around our necks like we had just won the Nobel Prize for Stupid.

 

And then there’s the trial of Lindsay Clancy who brutally strangled her three children.  Apparently, the majority of the jury was convinced she was not guilty of murder because she was mentally ill.  Most of you are not going to agree with me here and I may lose some readers, but, as Larry McMurty said, “I wouldn’t have gone in for writing if I hadn’t liked talking to myself.”  So here’s what I think:  If it looks like a duck, feels like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a damn duck.  She murdered her three children, and if our society has come to the position that mental illness is a reason for treating that kind of horror in a less serious manner, then how soon will we slide down the slippery slope to “not guilty by reason of depression”?  And then “by reason of unhappiness” or “anger” or just “having a bad day”?  Don’t send me your counter-arguments.  I’m not in the mood for arguing.  I’m in the mood for pontificating.  It’s much more fun.  Ah, I told you the word pontificate would come up and there it is.

 

I passed a drug-rehab center today and there was a sign on the lawn that said, KEEP OFF THE GRASS.  Have you ever had a bad habit that was hard to break?  Maybe even an addiction?  I used to smoke, but I don’t do that anymore.  It was easy to stop – the 86^th time.  I used to drink, but I don’t do that either.  There’s one thing to remember about bad habits or addictions -- just because you got the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.

 

Time to go now.  Stay well, count your blessings and keep off the grass.   Come back next week, everyone.  Who knows what I’m going to say?  Don’t miss it; it might be about you. 

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog # 495                               September 3, 2026

 

Do you know the word mnemonic?  Let’s make that our Weekly Word.  A mnemonic is a device for helping you to remember something.  Like Every Good Boy Does Fine which, if you remember your music lessons, reminds you of the notes of the musical staff:  EGBDF.  Or HOMES which helps you to remember the Great Lakes:

 

H                Huron

O                Ontario

M                Michigan             

E                 Erie

S                 Superior

 

Except now that President Trump has changed Lake Ontario to Lake America, it’s SHAME:

 

S                 Superior

H                Huron

A                America

M                Michigan

E                 Erie

 

Our President’s got a new game

He gives everything a new name

To him it’s a sport

To rename an airport

And now the Great Lakes are a SHAME.

 

I’ll bet you think I make up these stories just so I can insert a limerick.  It’s just the opposite.  I find a weird, but true, fact or occurrence first, and for one reason or another it stimulates my wacky brain to wax poetic. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him and makes me poor indeed (Othello).  I’m not letting anybody change my name, unless they change it to The Prettiest Pussycat in the World.  I like my name, and when Pops calls me, I always look up to see if he wants to play with our toys or just wants something warm on his lap while he reads.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and getting ready for Labor Day, which is a week from Monday.  Labor Day marks the end of Summer, although it doesn’t officially end for three more weeks.  Labor Day is the day we recognize and give thanks to all of you who work.  I don’t work anymore.  I read and write, do my volunteering, visit doctors, talk to my grandkids.  That’s during the day.  At night, I do whatever my wife tells me to do.  It makes life so much easier.  I also play a little poker and some bridge.  I do not play mahjong.  Do you know what you call a lady mahjong player?  A tile pusher.  A gentleman mahjong player is called a gent-tile pusher.

 

Every year, I get a physical from my doctor.  I’m sure you do too.  One of the first things they do is get your weight and height.  The English language is so bizarre that weight and height are spelled the same but pronounced differently. Weight, for most of us, goes up or down, but height is an alarming one-way street, an inexorable shrinkage leading eventually to your grandchildren calling you Ant Man.

 

After they tell you that you are half an inch closer to the carpeting than you were last year, they give you a battery of questionnaires, one of which is to determine if you are depressed.  Of course I’m depressed!  Who wouldn’t be depressed after learning that their new friends are Happy, Sleepy, Dopey and Doc?  During the physical, I told Dr. Primary that I was having some problem with my vision.  He told me to see an eye doctor.  I said, “If I could see an eye doctor, I wouldn’t need to see an eye doctor.”  Geesh!

 

I just walked into our bedroom and I smelled the unmistakable aroma of nail polish, and I immediately thought of something that happened seven or eight years ago.  It’s a good story, and you’re not going anywhere, are you?  One evening around 9:00, my heart started to race.  I remember staggering back to my bedroom and lying on the bed.  I remember a cool, soft hand holding mine.  I was certain that was my sweet Carol ministering to her frightened husband.  I was mistaken.  It was, instead, the hand of our neighbor Betty.  You see, Carol had just done her nails and couldn’t be expected to risk smudging the polish, so she called Betty to come over and hold my hand.  Look, I know my sweet wife loves me and would do anything for me, but let’s be honest -- there are priorities!  Thank you, Betty, for helping your friend by sparing her the inconvenience of doing her nails twice.  And thanks for holding my hand.  I wonder how my wife called 911.  It must have been with her toes.  When the two EMTs and the three firefighters entered my bedroom the chief EMT turned to my wife and said, “How long has he been in distress?  And, by the way, nice nails!”

 

We went to a local restaurant recently with some friends.  As the waitress handed out our menus, she took pride in informing us that all the vegetables were organically grown and all the seafood was responsibly raised.  I asked her how you responsibly raised a mussel.  Come on!  I can understand feeling sorry for a cow with those big watery eyes, or a pig with the funny snout and the cute tail, or a chicken with the pretty feathers.  I understand the “let’s not eat anything with a face” crowd.  But shellfish?  Woody Allen said, “I will not eat oysters.  I want my food dead, not sick or wounded.” 

 

So back to the question of responsibly raising a mussel.  What does that mean?  Do they sing to it, pet it, let it watch Dancing with the Starfish, paint its nails?  No, they farm raise it squashed next to a million of its cousins like sardines, then rip it off its anchorage and kill it.  To me, I wouldn’t care if they sent it to Princeton and gave it a tiny Mercedes for Christmas.  I still wouldn’t eat the slimy little thing.  Even with bacon duxelles.

 

I had already traumatized the waitress enough about the mussels without asking her what duxelles meant.  Instead, I just added the word to my list of food-related words -- like ratatouille and chiffonade – that I am pleased to live my life without understanding.  I was instantly disappointed in the chef for using such a term, and I began looking at all the patrons, trying to determine what a person who liked duxelles would look like.  Probably a rich person who likes mussels and spells ketchup with a “C”.

 

Okay, you’re excused.  Have a nice day, stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #494                                August 27, 2026

 

Do you remember the movie called THEM ?  That was the one about the giant ants starring James Arness, James Whitmore and Santa Clause.  Well, North Carolina has mosquitos that size.  And the last time I was there, I had to suffer the umbrage of a few of them big enough to carry luggage.  And the luggage had stickers on them, not for the places they’d visited, but for the names of the people they’d eaten – Marge, Fred, old man with the pacemaker. 

 

And speaking of dangerous flying things, there’s a warning sign near the airport that says Low Flying Aircraft.  Just how exactly do they want you to react to this information?  Are you supposed to duck?  They might as well put up a sign that says Watch Out for Falling Space Debris.  I mean if a door from the Space Station happens to fall on you accelerating 32 feet per second per second, well, it’s going to be a bad day.  There’s not much to be done about it.  And if an American Airlines 727 clips your Lexus with its landing gear, well, you’ll be shuffling off this mortal coil.  A little Shakespeare there.  We should never let a day go by without a little Shakespeare.

 

And speaking of a little Shakespeare, here’s a Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me from mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom (The Tempest).  I’m only little because everyone else in the house is bigger than me.  But I think I’m the purr-fect size, exactly the size of my Pops’ lap, where I go whenever he’s reading one of his books.  They must be boring books, because, after I sniff them, I fall asleep every time.  Purr.

 

And speaking of Carolina trips, I remember one trip that included our whole family – sixteen of us.  Somehow, one morning, after all eight grandchildren had eaten breakfast, Carol and I were alone in the kitchen.  I asked her to make me pancakes.  She makes great pancakes.  A quiet breakfast of delicious pancakes all by myself!  I was ecstatic with anticipation.  But no sooner did those hot steamy flapjacks flap onto my plate than the room began to shake, and a stampede of little urchins invaded the kitchen screaming for pancakes.  “I want the biggest!”  “I want the one on the bottom!”  “Where’s the syrup?”  “Move that old man out of the way.”  I got none of the first stack.  I guess they all figured if they had my genes, they could have my breakfast.  They inhaled the second stack, annihilated the third stack, devoured the fourth stack.  Carol was moving faster than the third zebra trying to reach Noah’s Ark.  Then, abruptly, the vultures, sated and happy, left me like a used and discarded call girl.  They didn’t even leave any money on the kitchen counter.  All they left was one, lonely, cold, torn pancake.  And the syrup bottle was gone.  I think they ate it.  I love being a grandfather!

 

Umbrage is the Weekly Word.  It means offense or annoyance.

 

Carol and I have been vacillating between buying some cemetery plots or doing the cremation thing.  There is a plot for me next to my parents and I’m pretty sure Carol has one next to her parents, but it just seems like we should be buried next to each other, doesn’t it?

 

You know, of course, that Carol and I have been married for 59 years.  I’ve told you that, haven’t I?  Fifty-nine years is a long, long time.  I'm a little fatter now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she’s still the same weight.  I'm shorter now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she’s still the same height.  I'm much older-looking now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she still looks the same.  Fifty-nine years ago I loved her with all my heart.  Well, some things never change.

 

Anyway, it just seems right somehow that after sleeping next to each other for 50 or 60 or 70 years, we should be buried next to each other.  I don’t know, maybe not.  Maybe she can just use her plot and put a little footnote on the headstone for me.  Just a little note in the lower corner that says, “Oh, and there’s him.  He didn’t get a closet, so why should he get a plot?”

 

And, of course, there’s the cremation option.  There’s a company called Celestis Memorial Spaceflights that, for a few thousand dollars, will take your ashes into space on a rocket and let them fall to Earth, burning in an atmospheric fireworks display.  It’s absolutely true! Now the phrase for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return could actually mean interstellar dust.

 

I don’t think the cremation fireworks idea has caught on yet.  In fact, it’s been about as popular as iceberg lettuce from Mexico.  But that’s because the company just hasn’t come up with the right flair, the right panache.  I’m thinking about going for it -- if they can do it the way I want.

 

I’ll pay you a few thousand cash

To light my remains with a flash

But when it’s my turn

For a re-entry burn

I want it to spell KISS MY ASH?

 

And I think I’ll ask them to throw in a quarter-pound of bacon when they fry me up.  I’d like my remains to smell like bacon.  Wouldn’t it be galactically spectacular if my atoms could be recycled into new plants and viruses and violin players and cabbages and kings?  Just a thought.  It probably won’t happen – too expensive.  So my second choice is to scatter my ashes in the Petite section of Nordstrom’s.  That way I’ll get to see my wife once in a while, but I’ll probably have to leave the bacon smell out.

 

By the way, if you ever think that I have died but you’re not 100% sure, just place my body in front of a TV playing Dancing with the Stars and if there’s any life in me at all, I will get up and walk out.  I’d rather be water-boarded.

 

I’m finished and you are too.  Stay well and count your blessings and I’ll be back next week, if the mosquitos don’t get me first.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com 

 

 

 

Blog #493                                August 20, 2026

 

Movie Review: The movie SIX was a filmed production of the live musical performed in London.  SIX is the story of the six wives of Henry VIII.  Henry was the English monarch from 1509 to 1547, the father of Queen Elizabeth I and a song by Herman’s Hermits.  The cast consisted of six women, each playing one of the wives, and they sang and danced energetically while telling their stories.  They were very good.  But, as George Bernard Shaw said, "England and America are two countries separated by a common language", and it was very difficult to understand what these girls were saying.  What few words we did understand, however, made it clear that the whole emphasis of the show was a celebration of Woman Power and how pusillanimous men are.  By the way, every member of the musical band was a woman.  So, if you’re looking for a Women’s Lib “high”, go for it.  You’ll enjoy the exuberant vivacity of the cast, but you won’t understand much of what they’re saying.

 

We are going out to dinner tonight.  I asked where we were going and my lovely bride said, “We’re going to Lester’s; be ready at 6:30.  Wear the khaki pants and the pink shirt.  You’re getting the chef salad no onions, no cucumbers. And don’t slow down for any yellow lights.”  I’m wondering -- why exactly does she need me to go?  I bet if I dressed a mannequin in the khaki pants and the pink shirt, she wouldn’t even know the difference.  She’d probably just say, You acted like a dummy tonight.

 

Hi there and welcome to Blog #493.  Man, these numbers are getting big.  Where does the time go?  It feels like just yesterday I was picking out my own clothes and deciding what I wanted to eat for dinner.  I hope you’re feeling well.

 

And speaking of movies, how about a story? You have nothing else to do.  As Shakespeare would say, a tale told by an idiot.  This happened a couple of years ago, when Carol said we were going to a movie.  I didn’t know which movie we were going to see, but it didn’t much matter.  I dropped her at the entrance.  Every morning she crawls, climbs and stomps around the house doing yoga-esque contortions and smiling like Richard Simmons on speed.  Then she hops on the treadmill for multiple miles.  But it is apparently too much of an effort for her to walk from the parking lot to the entrance.  So I dropped her.  Prince Charming! 

 

She bought two tickets, and when I entered, she handed me one and went to the ladies’ room.  I got a glass of water, showed the attendant the ticket that said Film A, and was directed to Theater 4.  I went in.  No Carol.  I picked a seat and waited.  No Carol.  I watched the coming trailers – all 827 of them.  At which point Carol entered and, in a voice loud enough to be heard in Istanbul, said, “You’re in the wrong theater!”  The patrons began to chuckle mercilessly as I slinked sheepishly out to follow my wife to a different theater.  And how, I hear you snicker, had I wound up in the wrong theater when my ticket clearly said the movie that was playing there?  Well, they printed Film A when she bought the tickets even though she wanted to see Film B.  No big deal; she just went to the theater showing Film B.  EXCEPT SHE FAILED TO TELL HER POOR DUMB HUSBAND.   And now everyone in the county is talking about the ignorant namby-pamby who couldn’t find the right theater and his skinny wife who had to come rescue him.  I think tonight I’ll just wear a sign that says USELESS SLOB.  Best to warn everybody up front.  See, a tale told by an idiot.  That Shakespeare was pretty smart.

 

I don’t really understand why she didn’t tell me where to go.  She does it all the time.  In fact, she and all her buttinsky ancestors have been telling men where to go, what to say and how to live their lives all throughout history.  For instance,

 

“No, Chris, don’t pick the first New World you see.  Let’s keep looking.  Maybe we’ll find one on sale.” 

 

“No, Abe, you don’t need to waste time shopping now.  Let’s go see a play.  And wear that tall hat”

 

“Forget it, Arthur, see if they have a round table.”

 

“Adam, put down that candy bar – too much fat.  Have an apple instead.”

 

“Sorry, Attila, I need more room.  You’ll have to move your clothes to Europe.  Thanks, Hun.”

 

“What did God offer you, Moses, eight commandments?  Go back up there.  See if you can get ten.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The play’s the thing (Hamlet).  Pops keeps talking about that other Shakespeare.  Who cares about some dumb old poet that nobody can understand when you can have a soft, intelligent cat?  I’ll bet there are more people reading this message right now than are reading Hamlet.  Purr. 

 

Let’s talk about something other than my wife, like Foreign Accent Syndrome.  Yes, there actually is such a thing.  Trust me.  Google it.  I just love Google.  The entire knowledge of Mankind is on Google.  Or should that be Womankind?  Personkind? Himandherkind?  Oh, who gives a rat’s Google?

 

Foreign Accent Syndrome (FAS) occurs when someone has a head injury and responds by talking with an unfamiliar foreign accent.  There have been cases with British, Chinese and Hungarian accents following blows to the head.  Honest!  I know this one is harder to accept than Anthony Fauci saying, I’m not in it for the money, but it’s true.

                            

There once was a fellow named Dennis

Who fell down one day playing tennis

The trauma and stress

Gave the guy FAS

And he talks now like Jose Jimenez.

 

How about a Weekly Word?  It’s namby-pamby, and it means a feeble person lacking in strength or courage.

 

Well, this poor player has strutted and fretted his hour upon the stage and is ready to wind it up.  That was more BS (Bill Shakespeare).  Go on, read Hamlet or Macbeth between now and next week.  You’ll like it.  And there’s going to be a pop quiz.  Don’t forget to count your blessings and try to stay well.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com