Blog #66
Fifty-one years.
That’s how long Carol and I have been married as of this week. Boy, that seems like a lot of years. Until you remember that Queen Elizabeth had
already been Queen for 15 years when Carol said I Do and I said Yes
Dear. Quite a ride! I’m strapped in for a whole bunch more. Bring it on.
Last week, if you remember, I said that making fun of
your wife was as old as Adam, and we eavesdropped on a few conversations
between God and Adam. Here’s another.
“Hi,
God, it’s Adam again. I don’t know what
to say, God. I told you what a horrible
mistake it was to create that woman, but in the past week or so I’ve gotten
used to her a little. I mean she’s
annoying and a real pain in the rib, but she’s taken up gardening and I’ve
learned how to hunt and we pretty much stay out of each other’s way. But then, God, you made an even worse
mistake. You made another woman! Now everyone’s miserable. Now she wants a new cold shoulder fig-leaf
outfit. Something called Figtoria’s
Secret. And she wants a nicer donkey –
something German. Why don’t You just
make two more of them so they can get up a bridge game and get out of my hair.”
Hi there and welcome back to my craziness. Have I told you my wife is speedy at
everything? She likes to call it
“efficient”. Let me put it this way -- if she had been married to Frederic
Chopin, the Minute Waltz would have lasted 30 seconds and Jules Verne would
have made it around the world in a week. Yesterday we were at the grocery store and she
was running
the aisles like a kangaroo with a hot coal in her pouch. I mean she was in a New York hurry! And all the while she was talking to me: “Why aren’t these bags over here? It
would save so much time. Why are these here? Why aren’t those there? Get that
old lady out of my way. Go stand in line at the deli so I don’t have to wait.
Go to the third checker; she’s the fastest.”
Then
she saw somebody she knew and stopped in the aisle to talk for twenty minutes
while I stood around shuffling my feet and trying to figure out the difference
between a rutabaga and a turnip. I
wonder if Adam has a cell phone.
I
went to a funeral. Dozens of cars were
guided into the cemetery grounds by the funeral home employees and efficiently
lined up in a tight parking queue. As I
turned my engine off, one of these employees walked up to the car and I rolled
down the window. Stop the story! I did
not actually “roll” down the window.
Ford introduced the power window in 1941, and although some of us may
remember driving a car with windows that you had to “roll”, pretty much we
haven’t rolled any windows since Phineas T. Bluster was Mayor of Doodyville.
So
I lowered the window,
whereupon the funeral person asked me what I considered to be a patently
unnecessary question. He said, “Are you here for the funeral?” There I was, with fifty other cars parked in
an immovable line in the middle of a cemetery.
“No,” I calmly replied, “I was wondering when the Jennifer Aniston movie
started. And hold the butter on the
popcorn.”
Funerals
depress me. I hope you are not depressed. I hope you are never depressed, but I know
better. We all have our periods of
depression. Health, money, politics, a
dozen other things. They say the signs
of depression are losing appetite or sleeping too much. I’ve had some depression to deal with, and
I’ll tell you this: depression isn’t
sleeping too late. Depression is being
told you have a week to live the day after you paid $700 apiece for two tickets
to Hamilton next month, and you know your wife will take some other guy. Depression isn’t losing weight. Depression is losing your job and having the
employment office tell you that the only position for which you are qualified
is to manage the Eric Greitens Re-Election Campaign.
And happiness is maybe
making you smile a little on a depressing Thursday.
A lady comes
home from the plastic surgeon. “The
doctor told me I had the breasts of a sixteen-year old,” she tells her
husband. “What did he say about your
75-year-old ass?” the husband asks. “He
didn’t mention you,” she replies.
Hey, a little history, a
little politics, a little poetry, a little rock n’ roll, a joke or two. It’s all right here in your weekly Limerick
Oyster. Step right up!
I’m sure you’ve heard
that the Miss America Organization will no longer include the swimsuit
competition or the evening gown competition in judging the contestants. I wonder how many people will tune in to see
which covered-up young lady is the most environmentally sensitive. Probably less than the number of letters in BOREDOM. The only audience for the pageant consists of
men who want to see sexy bodies and women who want to criticize everything.
I always turn the sound
off when the pageant is on and just listen to my wife.
She’s better than Bert Parks!
“Too short-waisted. Too
flat-chested. How did her mother let her
go out with that hairdo?
That gown is horrible! Who
dressed her?” My math is pretty
good: No Bodies + No Gowns = No
Audience. The next change, of
course, will be the name. MISS is gender insensitive and
exclusive. And AMERICA congers up thoughts of the flag, the Constitution
and the National Anthem, all things we want to avoid. So
next year the pageant will be called The
Most Politically Correct Person in the Western Hemisphere and not even
their mothers will watch. The organizers
have already written their instructions to the contestants:
We won’t play the anthem to start
So don’t put your hand on your heart
We’ll dress you like nuns
No boobs and no buns
And please don’t say anything smart.
Maybe they’ll get the Boy
Scouts of America to sponsor them. Oops,
they’re gone too. What’s next to go, The
Mickey Mouse Club? M-I-C (see you at the Rodent Lives Matter march) K-E-Y (why? Because Walt Disney
was a capitalist) P-E-T-A.
On a lighter note, why
didn’t the lobster share his dinner?
Because he was shellfish. Don’t
be shellfish. Share my blog with your
friends or anyone else who likes goofy old men.
Stay well please and count your blessings. See you in a week.
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