Blog #48
Well, Punxsutawney Phil did
not see his shadow this year. In fact,
he didn’t even make it out of his burrow.
No, this year it was Punxsutawney Phyllis who was raised from her burrow
at Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawney, PA and, seeing her shadow, predicted that the Eagles would win the Super
Bowl and that all the Academy Awards would be won by women. In China, it’s the Year of the Dog, but for
poor Phil and all of us other males, it’s the Year of the Doghouse. The women are taking over and Phyllis let
Phil know in no uncertain terms that she was going to be in the spotlight this
time.
But you know, whether
it’s Phil or Phyllis, I trust the overgrown rodents more than I trust the
weather-folks they have on TV, all of whom begin their broadcast with “Good Evening” and then proceed
to tell you why it isn’t. Did you ever notice that they go nuts when there is
bad weather? They love it! They live for disaster! And if the disaster isn’t frightening enough,
they invent words to make it seem worse. Wind Chill Factor, Heat Index, Black Ice,
Category 5, Bombogenesis. Plus,
they love to dive right in. Fires in
California? There’s Miguel Almaguer singeing
his boots on the roasting remains of someone’s house. Hurricanes in Florida? There’s Chris Cuomo up to his navel in water,
begging you to stay inside.
I think we should let the
groundhog do the weather. A couple of
squeaks from Phyllis while she’s gnawing on a turnip would convince me more
than that bunch of Chicken Littles they call meteorologists. Or is it Chickens Little? By the way, a groundhog is also known as a
woodchuck. I wonder how many
meteorologists could a woodchuck chuck?
St. Louis has its own groundhog – Ferguson
Freddie. He poked his head out last
week and was shot by a drug dealer. I
guess that means we’ll have six more weeks of protests. Rodent Lives Matter.
And speaking of animals, my daughter Abby went on a
vacation for a few days, and my job was to visit the house each day to feed the
cats and the fish. I like animals and
they like me, so I talked to the cats and petted them. Then I went upstairs and fed the fish. I always leave the television on for the
fish. They like:
Dancing
With the Starfish or Eel of Fortune, but
their favorite is Orange Roughy is the New Black Roughy.
Or I just put on South Pacific.
Their favorite song is Salmon Chanted Evening.
And speaking of music, my
wife went to the symphony with some girlfriends. The seats were close, but too far to the left
and all they could see were the violins, so they moved closer to the woodwinds and
. . . well, I never thought the symphony was a visual experience. I
don’t get a thrill from watching
a guy blow into a clarinet or a bunch of well-dressed ladies bowing their
violas. It’s the music I go for,
not the scenery. Classical is not
actually my favorite kind of music, but I can handle (make that Handel) most of
it. I’m really not a big fan of most art
(make that Mozart), so when I go I just close my eyes and lean back (make that
Bach) and relax. But to Carol and her
friends, the visual is everything. It
thrills them more than shopping (make that Chopin). I’m pretty sure it’s a sexual thing.
The trombone goes out and goes in!
The stroking of each violin!
The Conductor’s baton
Turns all the girls on
And the woodwinds are sexy as sin!
That’s why one of the
woodwinds is called a sexy-phone. And
don’t even get them started about the pipe
organ! And the piano
player? I must admit I’m a bit jealous –
must be a case of pianist envy.
Howdy, Y’all and welcome back. That’s a little Southern lingo because so
many of my friends have headed south for the winter. Are you down there in San Diego or Naples or
Palm Springs? Well, wherever y’all are
hidin’ (make that Hayden), I’ll find you and try to make you laugh. I hope you’re feeling well and staying
toasty.
Wasn’t the Super Bowl fun? Only one punt in the whole game! For me, the hardest part of watching the game
was figuring out what product the commercial was plugging. The typical commercial was a bunch of people
hugging and adopting pets and singing and loving everyone regardless of race,
creed, color, sexual-orientation or point-spread. Then at the end they would flash Honda or
something. Apparently, the new trend is
- “Hey,
buy my product because we love balloons, hired a lot of women and adopted a
three-legged dog.” Kumbaya!
I had to call an
insurance company yesterday, so I called the 1-800 number. I was instructed to “press one” if I wanted
to proceed in English. I guess if I
hadn’t done that, it would then instruct me, in Spanish, to press dos for
Spanish. Then press 3 for Mandarin, 4
for Viet Namese and subsequently to Korean, Hindu, Arabic, Swahili and a list
(make that Liszt) of eighty other languages until it gets to Cherokee where it
tells you, in Cherokee, that if you hadn’t let all those white sons o’ bitches immigrate
in the first place, they could have done the whole thing in Cherokee from the
beginning. Poor Indians! That was the first Amnesty – let
those white folks land here; there are only a few of them. They work hard and they’re
good for the economy. Press 89
for Cherokee.
From
time to time I get lovely compliments from some of my readers, but I also get
some criticism. One group of critics
says I spend too much time talking about how old I am, when the truth is that
I’m only 72 and don’t look old or act old.
So, to that group I apologize profusely.
Another group says that I sometimes sound angry. I’m really, really, terribly sorry. You see, I’ve been married for fifty years
and have become very experienced at saying I’m sorry. In fact, every night, before I close my eyes,
I turn to Carol and say, “Goodnight, Honey.
I’m sorry.” It saves time. So, to those who say I’m too angry or talk
about being old too much, I’m sorry. But
the truth is I’m pretty pissed that I’m old!
That’s enough. I know you’re very busy (make that Bizet), so
I’ll finish up. Stay well, practice your
Cherokee and I’ll see you next Thursday.
And don’t forget next week is Valentine’s Day.
I’m sorry.
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