Blog #504                                November 5, 2026

 

There was a big push a while back to put salad bars in all public schools.  I think it’s a great idea.  Our children should be encouraged to eat a balanced and healthy diet, but I would make one adjustment.  If you make a C or worse, you eat at the salad bar.  If you make As or Bs you get a burger with fries and if you are in the top 10% of your class – cupcakes!  C’mon!  What do you give your toddlers when they poop on the potty, kale?  No, you give them a Hershey’s Kiss.  Your students can’t possibly respond to some faint dream of a better job fifteen years from now if they study hard.  If you want kids to take school seriously and work hard, give them something they want right now.  If you want to put on some pounds at lunch, pound those books.  Stop grazing on curds; chow down with the nerds.  Get an A in French if you want French fries.  I promise you, it will work.

 

Of course, no-one would agree to my plan nowadays.  They don’t even like Ronald McDonald.  I heard a story that a watchdog group is lobbying McDonalds to get rid of its Ronald McDonald character, saying the clownish Ronald is attractive to kids and makes them want to go to McDonalds to eat.  Isn’t that the point?  No, says the group, not when the food is loaded with fat and calories and altogether bad juju.  They’re asking that Ronald at least tell the truth in their advertisements.  Here’s the new ad:

 

Come visit us at Mickey D’s

And try our McFatso with Cheese

The new Crappy Meal

Will make the kids squeal

And fill them with McCalories.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  Did you have a fun Halloween?  I went as J. D. Vance.  He seems to be the scariest thing out there.  I remember Halloweens when I was a little kid.  I would go out with my friends and my big brother. We’d walk all over, for blocks and blocks, never afraid to go anywhere.  Every year we’d go to Mrs. Sanders’ house.  She made us caramel apples.  And Mrs. Rubenstein had popcorn balls.  And sometimes we’d get brownies from the nice old lady on the corner.  I said “old lady”, but she was surely younger than I am now.

 

When I got a little older, they started giving us dimes instead of candy.  What a waste of a perfectly good Halloween!  You can’t eat dimes.  But Mrs. Sanders still made caramel apples.

 

My grandchildren asked me, “Poppy, what do we do if they want a trick?”  I told them if they ask for a trick, do this:  Knock knock.  Who’s there?  Boo.  Boo who?  Don’t cry. Just give me candy.

 

Last weekend, we all changed our clocks on Halloween night.  I’ve got an idea.  All of you who voted for Democrats move your clocks forward and those of you who voted for Republicans move them backward.  A couple of hours difference couldn’t make us any farther apart than we already are.  But at least at the Early Bird Special, we’ll know who’s who.  Aren’t you glad the elections are finally over?  Here are a couple of quotes I found about elections and politicians.

 

Every two years the American politics industry fills the airwaves with the most virulent, scurrilous, wall-to-wall character assassination of nearly every political practitioner in the country – and then declares itself puzzled that America has lost trust in its politicians.  Charles Krauthammer

 

Instead of giving a politician the keys to the city, it might be better to change the locks.  Doug Larson

I hope you all voted on Tuesday.  Except the ones who don’t agree with me.  I went to the polls early so I could see the new car that, apparently, all the Democrats are buying.  It’s called a Drove.  I don’t know anything about it except CNN says the Democrats are going to show up in Droves.  I do know that it only comes in two colors – Sanctuary Cherry and Im-Peach

 

Weekly Word:  Scurrilous means vulgar, coarse or abusive.

 

I like going to the grocery store with my wife.  It’s a nice walk up and down the aisles and I get to wave at all the stuff I’m no longer allowed to eat.  The last time we went, I had to go to the shoe repair place which was to the left of the store, so I dropped Carol at the grocery store’s left entrance.  What are you doing? she asked.  You see, in Missouri we always shop from right to left, although in Israel, I’m pretty sure they shop from left to right.  And in China, I suppose they shop from top to bottom.  I’m miserable, she said.  The phrase I’m Miserable spoken to a husband is akin to the phrase Code Blue spoken to a doctor, and requires the same urgency and attention.  Every morning, Carol walks six miles on the treadmill, but the thought of walking from the dairy section to the produce is too exhausting.  It’s like Frank Sinatra used to sing: Oh, it’s a long, long way from milk to cucumber.”   Of course, she could never be expected to shop from left to right.  She’d have to read her list upside down!  So I drove her to the right-side entrance.  I’m not embarrassed.  It is, after all, my proud and sworn oath to protect my bride from unwanted weather or exercise. 

 

And it is also my proud and sworn duty to be back next week with more stuff for you.  It might even be funny, so don’t miss it.  Stay well and count your blessings.  Wait, I hear a meow.  Did I forget Shakespeare?

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none (Taming of the Shrew.)   Wait a minute.  I haven’t had my turn yet.  I just want to remind Pops that it is also his duty to protect me.  Carol can drive and shop and take care of herself.  I can’t open a door or go out.  So don’t forget me, Pops.  You’re my main man and I’m your only cat.  Ok, now you all can go back to something more entertaining than this.  Purr

 

Shakespeare                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #503                                October 29, 2026

 

Beware, my friends, be careful.  It is the end of October and the time for ferocious and evil creatures to erupt from their sulfurous abodes and haunt your streets.  Horrible witches fly from their putrid dens.  Malodorous vampires stream from their caves on blackened and rotted wings.  Lupine creatures of every horrid ilk stalk from the fetid realms of Hell.  And what do they want from you?  They want you to vote for them next Tuesday.  Beware, my friends.  Be very careful. 

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Is man no more than this? Consider him well (King Lear).  I can’t vote.  I’m only a cat.  But If I could, I’d vote for my Pops.  He takes care of me and he’s smart.  He’s such a good boy.  Purr.

 

Atlanta Dream and Golden State Valkyries skip national anthem for third straight Women’s National Basketball Association Finals game.  That’s the headline, and it’s infuriating a lot of people.  Count me in.  Years ago, I sent a letter to the editor of the St. Louis Post Dispatch complaining how horrible it was for members of the Women’s National Soccer Team to kneel during the National Anthem before their games.  I am, once again, outraged.  Here’s my message to the WNBA players.  You want to complain about male basketball players earning more than you – go ahead.  You want to complain about Kaitlin Clark making more than you – have at it.  You want to voice your opinion about trans-gender athletes – fine.  But have enough grace and patriotism to stand up during the National Anthem.  You have reached the apotheosis of your sport.  Stop being selfish, self-centered egomaniacs and start respecting the country that has given you the opportunities you have.  I know you have the right to do it, but I have the right to never watch the WNBA again.

 

Apotheosis, by the way, is our Weekly Word.  It means the highest point; culmination or climax, apex.

 

Ok, that’s off my chest.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Here in St. Louis, our Autumn weather is fantastic, and last Saturday, Carol and I went out to do a few errands together.  We went to four separate places.  We bought bagels, groceries, clothing, a microwave, and when we got home, what did my wife say to me?  Thanks for going with me?  No, what she said was, That was good, Michael. You didn’t get lost once.  I was insulted and vowed to defend my dignity and masculinity.  So I wrote a limerick:

 

I’m good when I’m writing a poem

And I seldom will stray when I roam

But she says I get lost

Well, I’ll show her who’s boss

As soon as I find my way home.

 

Yes, she is one tough Lorna Doone!  But, she’s mine, and even if she were only a whiskey-maker’s daughter, I would love her still.

 

My oldest daughter’s first dog was Eli, a beautiful Australian Shepherd.  Eli was a girl, but that’s not the strangest naming oddity that my daughter engaged in.  She named her cat Zach.  Then she had her first child and named him Zach as well.  One day, when baby Zach was a month old or so, I called my daughter and asked how Zach was doing.  She replied, “Oh, he’s fine.  He’s on the deck lying on the barbecue pit.”  No, I said, not the cat!  So they changed the cat’s name to Zach the Cat and called him that for the rest of his long life.

 

Back to Eli.  I was in North Carolina visiting once and Jennifer asked if I would take Eli for a walk.  Of course I would.  Eli didn’t require a leash; she knew where to go and what to do.  So we took a nice walk through the woods and then headed home.  I had just passed one street and walking toward the next when I turned around.  Eli was not following me.  She was calmly sitting at the entrance to the street I had passed.  C’mon, girl, I said to her.  She just sat there and looked me in the eye as if to say, “Listen, old man, I have better eyesight than you and my sense of smell is better than yours and I’m younger, stronger and more alert than you.  Besides, I live here and know where I’m going.  And you?  You couldn’t find your way out of a McDonald’s bag if I left a trail of French fries for you.”  So I turned around and followed Eli home.

 

Many years later, Eli, nearing the end of her life, just walked away from her home.  She had been gone for a week, and Jennifer said she had gone away to die.  I wrote a heart-felt eulogy for the wonderful animal and we had a small service with lighted candles.  Very sad.  A week later, Eli walked back into the yard.  True story.

 

Speaking of dogs, there’s a store near me called Three Dog Bakery.  It sells all kinds of dog food, obviously.  I think they should sell food specialized for each breed of dog, and who better to think up cute dogfood names than Yours Truly?  Here are a few modest suggestions: Hearts of Pomeranian - Poodle Kugel - Collie Flower - Split Pekinese Soup - Chocolate Maltese - German Shepherd Pie.

 

Did you hear about the woman who brought her emotional support squirrel on a Frontier Airlines flight?  This is a true story.  She was removed, of course, though she put up a fight.  Someone suggested she was probably flying home from Washington, DC after spending a week screaming at the Senate Judiciary Committee.  She was likely mad because they wouldn’t let her squirrel into the Senate, although I don’t see why not.  They let every other kind of vermin in there.  Later, her grown daughter said she was proud of her mother for sticking up for her rights.  Her rights?  Does she have a right to bring a support yak on the plane?  A support python?  It’s bad enough they allow children.  You’re actually allowed to take a dead animal on board, but then they charge you for carrion.

 

I’ve taken enough of your time.  Have a nice week, vote if you haven’t already, stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog # 502                               October 22, 2026

 

I currently have four grandchildren in college.  I have a Freshman, a Sophomore, a Junior and a Senior.  The cost of attending college has become scandalous.  A four-year education at Stanford is upward of $300,000.  But wait – if your family makes less than $150,000 per year, Stanford considers you impoverished (well, it’s California) and your tuition is free.  That’s right.  Under $150,000 income – free.  Over $150,000 income – they’ll stick it to you big time.

 

If poverty is your condition

You won’t have to pay the tuition

But if you have dough

We’ll charge enough so

You won’t have a pot you can pish in.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school (Henry VI, Part 2).   I don’t know why Pops doesn’t send me to college.  I could go to Purr-due, take the M-CATs and learn about CAT scans.  Purr.

 

I don’t know whether you think that taking from the rich and giving to the poor is a good thing or not, but certainly that is what occurs in the calculus of college tuitions.  A rich family pays twice what the rate should be so that a poorer student can attend for free.  I’m not sure the one-to-one ratio is the correct permutation, but you get the point.

 

I apologize for all the mathematical terms – calculus, permutation, ratio – but you know I used to be a math teacher, and I sometimes lapse unknowingly into math-speak.  I’m planning to write a racy and erotic novel about a math teacher one day.  I think I’ll call it Fraction in the Rye.  Or maybe Five Squared Times Two Shades of Grey.  Or Tropic of Calculus.

 

Hi again and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling fine.  Have you ever looked inside a toilet tank?  Inside this sleek and shiny porcelain receptacle, perfect for the sanitary and odorless elimination of human waste and eyebrow-pencil shavings, rests the most arcane, jerry-rigged, Rube Goldberg collection of junk imaginable.  Chains and plastic rods and rubber balls jammed inside in such a delicate and tangential configuration that the smallest tremor will make the chain detach from the plastic rod or the rubber ball lodge against the side wall.

 

This is the 21^st Century, the age of the Internet and the iPhone and Artificial Intelligence.  Where are the geniuses of today?  Where is the Bill Gates of plumbing?  Where is Elon Flush?  We have mapped the human genome.  Why can’t we invent a toilet that isn’t filled with non-replaceable, non-interchangeable, non-transferable refuse that looks like it came out of a Fat Albert cartoon?  Well, what do you expect from a device invented by a man named Crapper?  (Thomas Crapper, 1836-1910)

 

Weekly Word:  Tangential means merely touching; only slightly connected.  It’s another pesky math term.  Sorry.

 

You know I love lists.  I keep lists of everything.   I’m working on a list of new names for sports teams because none of the current names will survive the scrutiny of the Politically Correct crowd.  No more can we tolerate the Indians, the Chiefs or the Braves – they’re demeaning to Native Americans.  And Lions and Tigers and Bears – oh my!  They’re too violent.  The Cardinals, Padres and Angels are too religious.  So what will the future politically correct sports teams be called?  I have a few guesses.  The Chattanooga Choice (a pro team of course, the San Fran Trans, and of course, the Mobile Warming.

 

I just finished a book by Agatha Christie.  Google tells me that, next to the Bible, the most books sold by one author is a tie between Shakespeare (William, not my cat) and Agatha Christie.  She has sold more than two billion books.  Thought you’d like to know.

 

Since I’m rambling here with no apparent purpose, let’s talk about Hanukah.  For some reason, my strange brain was remembering a Hanukah we spent in North Carolina.  I think my grandson Zach was six.  When we gave out gifts, he got a Playmobile Rescue Helicopter.  He assembled it all by himself in about an hour, an endeavor that would have taken his Phi Beta Kappa, Juris Doctor Poppy six months and the constant aid of a staff of rocket scientists to accomplish.  Zoey (age 4) got a sticker-making machine.  Alyssa (age 2) got some crayons.  My son-in-law got some socks.  My daughter got some shirts.  Carol got some stationery.  I got what the arrow-maker’s husband got – the shaft.  My gift, I was told, was watching my loved-ones’ pleasure at opening their presents.  I felt like the coach of the Washington Generals. 

 

After the presents, Zach and I made up a whole adventure using his helicopter and told stories till bedtime.  Sometimes I wish I was six and had a Poppy to take me to movies and buy me popcorn and tell me scary stories.  Zach is now 25, and my grandchildren don’t need bedtime stories any more.  But at least I can still tell stories to you.  Here’s one.

 

Some time ago, Carol had lunch with her pedicurist.  I thought that was a little bizarre to begin with, but who am I to interfere in a relationship between a woman and her pedicurist?  I’m not sure where they were going, either Dunkin ToeNuts or Ruby Toesday, but I was assigned to pick her up.  She told me if I got there early, I could wait at the bar next door.  Early?  I am always early.  Always! Punctuality is the politeness of kings!  I really didn’t want to wait at a bar, but she said just go there and try to pick up some girls.  How am I going to pick up some girls?  Read them my blog?  I can just see all those young women shoving each other out of the way to get closer to the raggedy old fart reading some kind of limerick gibberish.  It’s a good thing I’m not in the market to pick anyone up.  I’m happy I can pick up my cat.  Instead, I passed the time wondering what you eat at lunch with your pedicurist.  Probably corn chowder and, of course, toe-fu.  How about French bunion soup?  I know, I’m corny, but at least I’m on time.

 

And I’ll be on time next week.  So have a lovely, count your blessings and stay well.  And don’t be late.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #501                                October 15, 2026

 

I care about a lot of things.  I care about my wife and my cat, my daughters and my grandchildren and their cats.  And their dogs.  I care about my friends and my loyal readers and about politics.  But the thing I care the least about in all the world is Amelia Earhart.  Why do we still give a rat’s propellor about Amelia Damn Earhart after all these years?  Do you think she’s out there on some island at the age of 129?  She’s been gone for 89 years.  And yet every few years, some apocryphal headline comes up about somebody finding Amelia Earhart’s tooth in their Big Mac.  Do you think she’s hiding on some Pacific atoll playing mahjong with Jimmy Hoffa and D. B. Cooper?  Give it up, people.  Worry about something else.  Like why bakers can’t count to twelve.

 

Ok, there are three possibilities here:

1.     You knew who D. B. Cooper was.

2.     You didn’t know who he was, so you looked him up on Google.

3.     You don’t give a rat’s propellor about D. B. Cooper.

And yes, you guessed it.  Apocryphal is our Weekly Word.  It means of questionable authorship or authenticity.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I’m here and you’re there, so let’s talk.  I hope you are feeling well and enjoying the Fall weather.  “Autumn repays the earth the leaves which summer lent it,” said Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, an 18^th Century German physicist and philosopher famous for his many quotable phrases.  Aren’t you glad I told you that?  It is now Autumn, of course, and the season of falling leaves.  Many of you will spend Autumn in Florida where the leaves don’t fall or Arizona where there are no leaves, but here in Missouri we have a glorious and colorful Autumn to look forward to.

 

Did you have a nice Columbus Day last Monday.  I’m not sure exactly why we celebrate a day for a man who never set foot on this continent.  Nothing around here was named after him except a city in Ohio.  And, of course, he was a nasty white European colonialist who ordered the extermination of indigenous populations.  But he made good pomodoro sauce, so I guess it’s alright.  The day has turned into something of a celebration of Italian Heritage, even though there was no such country as Italy in Chris’ day.  He was from Genoa, a country unto itself, and sailed under the flag of Spain – which is why everybody south of the border is Hispanic, not Histalian.  Isn’t this informative?  It’s like continuing education.

 

Columbus was actually lost when he discovered America.  He was looking for India.  He should have had my wife along with him.  She would have set him straight.

 

The crew is all down with infections

You haven’t met any projections

You’re sailing too slow

You don’t know where to go

Pull over and ask for directions.

 

Is it just me, or are all men so poorly disregarded by women?  Sure, when they need to know how to spell something or how to screw in a lightbulb or they need a poem for their cat’s neutering party or whatever – they come right to me.  But when it comes to driving, dressing, directions or common sense, they avoid me like Will Smith.  Am I that useless?  (This is the part where you go to your computers and e-mail poor, helpless old Michael and tell him how respected and important and loved he is.  That’ll be nice.)

 

Let’s move on to something light and amusing.  Like baseball.  Even though the Cardinals’ chances are deader than Bill Cosby’s Mastercard, the Baseball Playoff Season is here.  Did you know that Cosby was a football player at Temple University?  Temple just announced yesterday that they were retiring his number – PA4974482.

 

I hear Cosby is going to manage a new Major League Baseball team next year, the San Quentin Felons.  Their uniforms are striped and some of these guys actually stole second base.  The pitcher and catcher are known as the Aggravated Battery.  When they announce the lineup, these guys really get in a lineup.  How many more dumb jokes do you want?  The numbers on the back of their uniforms read 5 to 10 or 20 to life. 

 

Here’s the roster: Enos Manslaughter, Alcatraz Pujols, Barry Bondsman, Ernie Banksrobber, Don Larceny, Roger Clemency, Yadier Molester, Babe Ruthless and Johnnie Benchwarrant. 

 

Carol is obsessed with beautiful women.  Heidi Klum – who can argue with that?  Jane Fonda – Carol just watched a Jane Fonda special on HBO.  Melania Trump – “she’ll dump him as soon as he’s out of office”.  Kate and Meghan – the English Royalty.  The Royals are her major obsession – first Diana, then Kate and now Meghan.  My wife is most assuredly a princess; all she lacks is a crown. 

 

It’s not fair to be jealous of people just because they’re beautiful.  As Charles Dickens said, Persons don’t make their own faces, and it’s no more my fault if mine is a good one than it is other people’s fault if theirs is a bad one.

 

I hope you are feeling well and staying away from all the natural shocks that flesh is heir to.  (A little Shakespeare there.)  I’m good.  I remember fifty or sixty years ago when we would get together with friends and talk about who was pregnant and who was buying a house and who got a promotion.  Now we get together and talk about who’s in the hospital and who’s in the nursing home and who’s in the obituaries.   Pretty sad.  Please don’t get sick and don’t fall and don’t forget my name.

 

Message from Shakespeare: The empty vessel makes the loudest sound (King Lear).  Wait a minute, did I hear him say “a little Shakespeare”?  That’s me.  I hate when he mentions that other Shakespeare, some old, dead, mothball poet that I can’t understand.  I never say perchance, I say Purr.   I never say methought, I say Meow.  And I still make more sense than that dumb poet.  Purr.

 

Ok, this blog had a lot of stuff – stories about Columbus, quotes from Dickens and Shakespeare and Lichtenberg, a clever limerick.  You don’t get that from The View!  And on that obvious note, I shall end Blog #501.  Stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #500                                October 8, 2026

 

That’s right.  Your eyes have not deceived you.  This is the 500^th Limerick Oyster you have been lucky or un-lucky enough to have received.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you all are feeling well.  The first Oyster was let out of the bag on March 16, 2017, and the last one – well, hang in there.  I’m not done yet.  Thanks for hanging around so long.  I really have enjoyed writing to you.

 

Today, let’s talk about the death penalty.  Christa Pike, a Tennessee woman was sentenced to death in 1996 for a murder she committed in 1995, more than thirty years ago.  But a court has stayed the execution to review her lawyers’ claims that she was a victim of child abuse.  Here are some thoughts.

 

·        I’ve said this before, but Pike’s case strengthens my argument.  The best thing you can do to guarantee living for 30 more years is to get sentenced to death.  Why does it take 30 years?

·        And why has it taken 30 years for her defense to raise these abuse issues?  Who was her lawyer, Rip Van Winkle? 

·        I’m not a fan of the death penalty.  It’s morally messy and confusing, but I am a fan of harsh punishment.  How about making her watch America’s Got Talent re-runs for six hours a day?

·        Have you noticed that 19 of every 20 acts appearing on America’s Got Talent are from Asia?  Why don’t they call it Asia’s Got Talent?

·        And have you noticed that America’s Pastime, the sobriquet for Major League Baseball, is played mostly by players from the Dominican Republic and Venezuela?  Why don’t they call it South America’s Pastime?

·        And now you know why you should receive a reward for reading 500 weeks of this rambling, pointless drivel.  Why don’t they call it Limerick Drivel?

And as long as I’m rambling, let’s talk more about South America’s Pastime.  The baseball playoffs have started, and Pope Leo is rooting for the White Sox.  Well, he is from Chicago, so that’s understandable, but don’t you think the Pope, the leader of world Catholicism, should choose more Catholic-oriented images – like the Cardinals or maybe the Angels or the Padres?  Or how about the Saints?  I know, the Saints are a football team, but they could still probably play baseball better than the Cardinals!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Like a football you do spurn me thus? (The Comedy of Errors).  I can play ball too.  Pops rolls a little ball across the carpet and sometimes I chase it.  Mostly I just let him chase it and roll it back.  He gets more exercise than I do and he thinks we’re both having fun.  He’s so goofy.  I haven’t been in all his blogs, but I’ve been purring and meowing at you for about six years, and I know I’m funnier than he is.  Purr.

 

Oh, and now they decided to go ahead with the execution of Christa Pike, and they gave her two lethal injections.  They didn’t work.  Where did they get these drugs, Taco Bell?

 

If you’ve been reading all 500 of my blogs, you have noticed that I pick on my wife a lot.  She is such a good sport and never gets offended that I use her like a lovely, little piñata.  That’s because she knows that a good part of my humor comes from using her as a foil. A foil, Weekly Word, is someone or something that serves as a contrast to another.  George Burns had Gracie as a foil; Phyllis Diller had Fang, and I’ve got Carol.  I am very lucky.

 

And, if you’ve been reading all these blogs, you’ve noticed that I consider myself a poet – a minor, silly and overrated poet to be sure, but a poet nonetheless.  And who are the poets I look up to and whose talent I envy?

 

·        Poe, of course.  I have memorized every word of The Raven.

·        Alfred Noyes.  I can recite the first and last stanzas of The Highwayman.

·        Dr. Seuss

·        Shel Silverstein

·        Robert Frost.  I can recite Provide, Provide.

·        A. E. Housman.  I am now reading his complete works (again) and I may share one or two with you as the weeks go on.

Back to Carol as my foil.  “What are we doing tonight?”  I asked my Honey last Saturday night.  By Honey, I mean my wife, in case you thought I had another Honey lying around.  She said we had no plans, so I made a date with her for dinner, just the two of us.  I love going out with her alone.  We get to talk about everything with no television, on-line bridge games, on-line canasta games, crossword puzzles or telephone calls taking up all of her concentration.  She agreed, but she decided she wanted to ask some other people.  Out came the telephone, and she easily found three other couples whose husbands wanted to be alone with their wives.

 

A dinner, just me and my date

For her was just not on the plate

“If you want to dine

Well, that would be fine

But it’s got to be dinner for eight.”

 

There you go, a minor, silly and overrated poet.  I told you. 

 

I’ve been struggling with my car lately.  It’s been a little sluggish the last couple of weeks.  When I step on the gas, it just has too much resistance, almost like there’s something under the pedal.  I decided to fix it.  As you know from reading 500 blogs, my succeeding in fixing anything mechanical is about as likely as Maxine Waters doing a foxtrot with J. D. Vance.  As likely as Donald Trump becoming a trans-female basketball player.  As likely as Carol eating at a square table.  But as a first step, I bent down and felt under the pedal, and you know what?  There was something under there.  The floor-mat had bunched up under the pedal and was keeping it from depressing all the way.  I moved the mat and everything was fine.  How about that?  Just call me Mr. Goodwrench.  No?  How about Mr. Luckywrench?  No?  How about Mr. Idiotwrench?

 

Well, I have to go now.  I have to start working on the next 500 blogs.  I’m up for it.  Are you?  Stay well, count your blessings and hang around for another 500.  Thanks.

 

Mr. Idiotwrench                       Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #499                                         October 1, 2026

 

In the course of a normal week, I take 103 pills.  Ok, I’ll pause here to give you time to calculate how many you take.  . . . . . . .  Finished?  Ok.  One of the pills I take every day is a large, white, oblong-shaped calcium pill.  It’s so big that every once in a while, it gets stuck in my throat.  I’ve tried cutting it in half, but then the halves are uneven and sharp at the edges and harder to swallow than the whole one.  Yesterday, it got stuck in my throat.  I tried coughing, then swallowed two glasses of water trying to dislodge it, but nothing worked.  So I went to the World’s Greatest Urgent Care – my wife, Urgent Carol.  “Honey, I need you,” I said.  She must have recognized my distress, because she immediately turned off the Today Show, put down her iPad on which she was playing bridge and turned down the volume of her cell phone that was playing Dolly Parton music.  “What?” she asked.  I described my problem.  “Go eat something,” she suggested.  What?  There’s a pill lodged in my throat.  Dumping some food on top of it will just clog up my throat even more.  “Eat a cookie,” she insisted.  No, I said.  “Eat a cookie or I’ll turn on The View and frighten the damn thing out of you!”  I grabbed a cookie and began to eat.  I hadn’t finished half of it before the pill dislodged and slid right down.  “Thank you,” I said.  “Now you can go back to the six or seven things you were doing.”  How does she do that?  I can’t even walk and swallow a pill at the same time.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling terrific and ready for Winter.  It’s October already and Winter is not far behind.  Let’s see what’s going on.  In the news, China will be sending Ping Ping and Fu Shuang to Atlanta.  No, that’s not a take-out order, it’s a shipment of two pandas to the Atlanta Zoo.  Here’s what I don’t get – if a pregnant Chinese woman and her husband visit America, and she delivers her baby here, the baby is automatically an American citizen.  But if Ping Ping and Fu Shuang have a baby panda at the Atlanta Zoo, it belongs to China.  Does that seem right to you?

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Exit, pursued by a bear (The Winter’s Tale).  What?  Now he’s talking about bears?  Panda bears are too big.  They wouldn’t fit on his lap like I do.  Silly old man!  You have the best pet there is.  You don’t need an ugly, smelly bear.  Purr.

 

In the English class I used to teach, I had several Chinese students, and one morning we were talking about the animals of the Chinese Zodiac.  This year is the Year of the Horse.  Why should you care?  Well, there are one billion, four hundred million Chinese on your doorstep trying to take over the world.  It might be worth your while to learn a bit about them.  The Chinese rotate their years through a menagerie of twelve animals: Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, Pig.  Hey, Chinese folk, I love your egg rolls, but your choice of animals is a bit bizarre.  I like Tiger – fierce, strong, unchallenged.  And Horse – fast, beautiful, useful.  Even Rabbit – cute, soft. But Snakes and Pigs and Rats?  Who do you have choosing your animals – General Tsao and his Chickens? 

 

And speaking of animals, last week at the Zoo, a boy asked me, “Where’s the werewolf?”  Then a little girl asked me, “Are unicorns real?”  Sure, I said.  Well, aren’t they?  Then she said, “Do you have any here?”  No, I replied, but we have green alligators and long-necked geese, some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees.  She looked at me like I was Mork from Ork, but her Grandma smiled.

 

When little kids come to the Zoo

They want to see Winnie the Pooh

And a dragon with horns

And some pink unicorns.

That’s cool – I believe in them too.

 

I was at Walgreens recently and picked up a box of assorted sized flesh-colored Band Aids.  When I got home, Carol noticed the bag.  She notices everything.  She knows what I eat, what I wear and what the second half of each of my sentences is going to be.

 

What’s in the bag? She asked.

Oh, I replied, I just needed some . . .

flesh-colored Band-Aids, she said.

How did you . . .

Know?  I just did.  But they’re really not flesh-colored Band-Aids.

Well, I said, yes they . . .

No they’re not.  Read the box.

 

I did and discovered two things.  First, it did not say “Flesh Colored”.  In today’s world the term flesh-colored is invidious.  What color is flesh-colored anyway?  Perhaps it should be labeled “Flesh of White Americans of European Descent Colored”.  Or just “Jew-Colored”.  It occurs to me now that white people are not People of Color.   But do not be alarmed.  There is a brand called Tru-Colour Adhesive Bandages – Diversity in Healing which are the color of – well, people of color.

 

And second, (there was a first somewhere in the last paragraph, so now here’s the second) they weren’t Band-Aids.  They were Walgreen’s Adhesive Bandages.  So Carol was right.  She always is.  Just ask her.  But you can understand my mistake.  Band-Aids have been such a familiar commodity in our lives for so many decades that we presume it’s just the name of the commodity itself, not a brand name.

 

There are lots more like that.  The most familiar brand names that have become synonymous for the generic product are Kleenex, Scotch Tape and Coke.  But there are lots of others.  Aspirin, for instance, is a brand name as are Jell-O, Chapstick, Bubble Wrap, Q-Tips, Crock-Pot and Frisbee.  And now Google just means to look something up on any old search engine, just like Xeroxing used to mean making a copy.  Oh, did I tell you Carol was right about the Band-Aids?  She wanted to make sure you knew.

 

Weekly Word:  Invidious means of an unpleasant or objectionable nature.  I hope you didn’t find this blog invidious.  It’s time to go.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com