Blog #79

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, tobasco, cayenne, 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?  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 of it.  I hope you’re feeling dandy and are ready for more of my methodical madness.  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.

Last week, the State of Missouri, where, as you know, Carol and I live, changed the legal minimum age for marriage from fifteen to sixteen.  That means that no child of 15 will be able to drink alcohol, vote, drive a car, buy cigarettes or get married.  Gee, it hardly pays to be a teenager.  Well, at least there are some things a teenager can still do, like burying themselves behind their smart-phones and mouthing off to their parents.  I love my grandchildren.

So in Missouri, a 16-year-old girl can marry a 17-year-old boy, but they still won’t allow her to marry a guy over 21, fearing a young girl being overwhelmed by an older man. I’m using guy and girl, but it’s also true, I suppose, for girl-girl, guy-guy or any of the other 2,553 combinations of wedded couples using Facebook’s 71 approved gender choices.  I, of course, as a member of the old fuddy-duddy male contingency, do not understand most of that.  I mean, did you ever hear of a baby doctor coming into the waiting room to tell the family members, “Congratulations, it’s a Cisgender Male!”

Speaking of older guys marrying younger girls, my sister married an older guy.  She was 47 and he was 92.  Honestly!  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!

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 Susqeepalomous 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!”

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, my succeeding in fixing anything mechanical is about as likely as Roseanne Barr starring in Carmen.  As likely as Maxine Waters doing a foxtrot with David Duke.  As likely as Donald Trump buying a pair of Nikes.  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?

Last week at the Zoo, a boy asked me, “Where’s the werewolf?”  Today 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 just spoke with a friend of mine, whose name shall be withheld.  No, she’s not the Anonymous who wrote the NY Times op. ed.  I’m just withholding her name for reasons which will become obvious.  She had a non-life-threatening operation and just returned home.  She told me that while recuperating in the hospital, a member of the clergy visited her room to offer prayers for a speedy recovery.  The clergy person asked if there was anything else bothering her, and my friend responded that yes, she did have a problem.  She was constipated.  So the clergy person scribbled a prayer for her.  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.  Stay well, count your blessings, keep away from borogoves and be regular.  See you next week.  Can you wait that long?

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com