Blog #90

Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?  We had a lovely time at my niece’s house.  I’ve noticed another sinister sign of aging – when Thanksgiving passes on to a new generation.  It’s no longer at your house or your sister’s or your cousin’s.  It’s at your son’s or your niece’s.  When it gets to be at your granddaughter’s house – well, just sit quietly in the corner and enjoy whatever food they bring you.

On Thanksgiving morning, I was in my study calling some friends when I noticed that the noise from the bedroom was exceedingly loud.  My wife had turned up the bedroom TV loud enough so she could hear the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while she did her nails in the bathroom.  Who listens to a parade?  It’s like listening to a dog show, which she actually did after the parade.  It’s like listening to fireworks.  It’s like listening to the Miss America Pageant.  Do they still have those?

Years ago, each Thanksgiving I would listen to my favorite Thanksgiving song, Alice’s Restaurant by Arlo Guthrie.  The song takes 20 minutes, but I liked it.  I liked it so much that I began to listen to it every night.  Every single night, rain or shine, no matter what, twenty minutes.  You thought reciting The Raven with a paper bag over my head was weird?  Well the Alice Obsession was weird enough that it took my shrink six months to cure me of it.  But I still sneak it in on Thanksgiving.

After a busy and festive holiday, I’m back now to a normal week filled with the “rust of routine”, as G.G. Marquez says.  Monday’s rusty activity was bridge with my 80-year-old friends, as opposed to Tuesday which is bridge with my 85-year-old friends.  But, as God said to Methuselah, “IF YOU CAN MAKE IT TO 800, YOUR CHANCES OF REACHING 900 ARE PRETTY GOOD.”  You have to make God’s words capital, you know.  It says so on Page 4 of the Writer’s Manual – “In quoting God, you must use capitals to distinguish from lesser gods, like Oprah.”  That’s what it says.

Now that the weather is turning cold, I sometimes get a little down.  You know the feeling – like the world is too much with us, too many things disturbing the tranquil and comfortable nest we have tried all these years to create for ourselves and that, by this time, we feel we deserve.  Some days you feel like the big dog and some – well, you know how the saying goes:

When the world’s coming down on your head

And you wish you had just stayed in bed

Just remember this phrase:

“You’re the big dog some days

“But on some you’re the hydrant instead.”

Hi there and welcome back.  Sorry for the little downer.  What we all need is a Happy Hour.  The problem is that at our age, we don’t drink much anymore.  I drink never, my wife almost never, my friends not much at all.  So we have to find other ways to get happy, like signing up for a new Medicare Drug Plan that saves us $2 a month.  Now that’s happy.  What we really need is a Miserable Hour.  We’ll all congregate at a restaurant that has an Early Bird Special and bitch about our health and robo-calls and the price of medications and our daughter-in-law’s parents and why it is that our neighbor is paying $5 less for cable than we are.  That, and half off on a chicken sandwich will make us about as happy as we’re going to get.  See you there.

Here’s something happy to talk about - crime.  There is so much crime going on, it’s frightening just to leave the house, but my wife reassures me that I am the least likely person to get mugged.  She says the way I dress, I look like I’ve been mugged already.  I tell it like it is, she says.  That’s the phrase she always uses when she insults me.

Then I heard on the radio today about a man who killed his wife and two children.  The Prosecuting Attorney said he had been charged with three counts of aggravated murder.  What exactly is “aggravated murder”?  I mean how much more can you aggravate someone than by murdering her?  Is aggravated murder worse than plain old murder?  “Not only did Mr. Smith murder his wife, Your Honor, he aggravated her.  And you know what the penalty is for aggravated murder?  Being forced to listen to reruns of The View.

I’m going to bet that if you are a guy, you refer to my wife and me as Michael and Carol, but if you’re a gal, you call us Carol and Michael.  Isn’t that pretty much accurate?  It’s because men and women have a different filter through which they view life.  Rudyard Kipling said, “God fashioned Man on one day and Woman on another, in sign that neither should know more than a very little of the other’s life.”  Now that’s twice I’ve mentioned God already.  Is that too much?  I promise to ignore God for the rest of this blog.  Sorry God.

It is not Politically Correct to talk about anyone as fat.  Instead, we invent little euphemistic sillinesses like, “He’s not fat, he’s just easier to see.”  I was just in a shopping center doing a little holiday browsing.  You know, if you’ve seen one shopping center, you’ve seen a mall.  And in every mall, there are plenty of people who are “easier to see”.  I mean how can some of those people be that overweight?  I saw one woman so fat, her belly-button didn’t have lint in it; it had furniture.  I saw one teenaged guy so fat, if he had gone missing, they would have had to use all four sides of the milk carton.  There was an old woman so fat that when Columbus discovered America, he discovered her first.  Go ahead, cancel my Politically Correct Membership Card.  I never liked it anyway.  I tell it like it is.

But don’t cancel your subscription to my Oyster.  I need you.  Who else would listen to this foolishness?  So stay well, count your blessings and show up next week.  Or else!

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #89

Thanksgiving Day is a jewel to set in the hearts of honest men; but be careful that you do not take the day, and leave out the gratitude. – E.P. Powell

Happy Thanksgiving.  It’s my favorite day.  It’s my favorite food.  I have so much to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day.  There’s my wife (yes, I’ll say something nice about her: she’s special and wonderful and I adore her.  Please don’t tell her I said that). And there are my children, my grandchildren, my children-in-law, my friends.  I’m thankful for my health and I’m thankful for the opportunity to talk to you every week.  Count your blessings, everyone. 

Thanksgiving is also the official start of the Christmas Season, and many of your local radio stations are beginning to play Christmas songs 24/7.  I know there’s only so much Brenda Lee and Burl Ives you can take, but Christmas songs are generally pleasant and enjoyable.  Except Frosty the Snowman of course.  Poor Frosty has become a victim of the PC Police.  Just look at the words:

Frosty the Snowman:  The anthropomorphizing of inanimate objects disturbs a child’s ability to adjust to real-world situations.  No name. 

Was a jolly happy soul:  Frosty is fat.  To display him as jolly minimizes the dangers and misery of obesity.  And how can he possibly be happy when Trump is President?  No jolly.

With a corncob pipe:  A pipe?  We have enough evidence of the dangers of smoking that displaying a pipe to children is criminal.  No pipe!

And a button nose:  Most buttons are plastic and therefore not biodegradable.  No nose!

And two eyes made out of coal: Coal is a hydrocarbon and a major source of the contamination that leads to global warming.  I’m surprised that it’s actually cold enough to keep him from melting.  No eyes!

So that leaves just a blind, nameless, nose-less, smoke-free, unhappy Snowblob.  I liked him better as Frosty.  Too bad; it was a good song.  But there will still be plenty of old classics, like Al Gore singing Oh the weather outside is frightful and Maxine Waters singing You’re a mean one, Mr. Trump or Bob Woodward’s version of Do you hear what I hear.  And of course, the classic of Don Lemon singing I’m Dreaming of a White Man’s Christmas.  What a happy season it is!  Oh Tidings of Whoopi and Joy, Whoopi and Joy!

Hi there.  Are you mad at me yet?  Once in a while, people are angered by some of the things I say.  That’s ok, actually.  You wouldn’t want to listen to some namby-pamby loser who has no opinion and does everything his wife says and let’s her pick out his clothes and goes to McDonald’s every morning and reads Moby Dick, would you?  Welcome back.  Hope you are feeling fine this Thanksgiving morning.

And even though it’s Thanksgiving, I’m a little aggravated.  I have learned that an ex-NFL football player was released from prison after serving 18 years for hiring two hit-men to kill his pregnant girlfriend, which they managed to do.  I live here; my wife and children and grandchildren live here.  I don’t care about this murderer.  I don’t care about his rights; I don’t care if he has family or friends or shingles or fleas.  He is dangerous to me and my family and to everyone else in the world.  Why is he free?  The governments of the United States and the several states have a specific and solemn duty to protect me.  Me!!!  Not this cold and evil murderer.

On a lighter note, we recently attended a show at the Jewish Community Center which began with the obligatory fundraising raffle.  I listened to them announcing the winners: The winner of the wine tasting party is #488107.  The winner of the free bris is #488229.

A free bris?  For those of you who do not know what a bris is, you’re extremely fortunate.  A bris is a circumcision ceremony performed on a new-born male.  But there were no new-borns in the audience, and #488229 turned out to be an old man.  When he was handed the certificate for the free bris, he claimed he had already had a bris 85 years ago.  Not to worry, said the host, we’ll just take off a little bit more.

At your age you surely won’t miss

The part we cut off at the bris

Because, truth be told,

You’ve gotten so old

Your thing only works when you piss.

Now there you go getting mad at me again, but the story about the free bris is mostly true.  I just took it my hands and massaged it a little.  Wait, that might have been a poor choice of words.

Last week I told you about phoning a friend who, surprisingly, was in Romania.  I thought that was exotic.  A few days later I got a message.  Each week I get comments from loyal or casual or new readers of Limerick Oyster.  I love getting your comments.  This message was from a loyal reader who informed me that he was reading my blog as he ate breakfast in Hong Kong.  Wow, my readers are all over the world – Romania, Hong Kong, Florida, California.  I’m in my study.

In this week’s news:  On Tuesday, a large Venezuelan Bronze-Winged Parrot, traveling with the Central American Caravan, flew over the border fence separating Tijuana from Greater San Diego.  Since it had no criminal record and could speak perfect English, the parrot was immediately granted asylum by the United States Border Patrol.  On Wednesday, President Trump named the bird Secretary of Homeland Security.   

Did you know that in Maryland you need a license to be a fortune teller?  It’s true.  First you have to take a test that checks your ability to predict what will happen in the upcoming week.  If you pass, you get a Fortune-Tellers’ license.  If you fail you become a meteorologist.  Here’s my forecast for next week: you’ll come back to read the next episode of Limerick Oyster.  I’ll be waiting for you.  Till then, stay well and count all your blessings – twice.  Remember, it’s Thanksgiving.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #88

Can we talk?  Sometimes men have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.  Normal!  When I do, it’s usually about 4:00.  The flushing wakes my wife, so she has asked that I use the guest bath.  My clothes are already in the study and now I guess my bathroom is in the hall.  I am many things; I have many faults.  But I am not stupid.  I see the writing on the wall – the guest bathroom wall.  I hog all the covers and watch strange old movies, and, although she’s never suggested it, I’m sure Carol would be more comfortable if I slept in the study.  Near my clothes.  But I won’t.  I like sleeping with my wife.  It’s safe and comfortable and pleasant-smelling.  I don’t mind my clothes in the study and I don’t mind the guest bath, but I intend to sleep in my bed with my wife.  So there! 

I could get even with her by getting a cat.  She never liked cats sleeping on her bed.  Are you a cat person or a dog person?  Dogs are loyal, loving members of the family who want to hug you, please you and treat you like God.  Cats are royalty who dislike you and tolerate your existence only because they have successfully trained you to wait on them.  Kind of like wives.

I only drink warm half ‘n half

I’m a princess, not local riff raff

Scratch my tail, scratch my chin

Let me out, let me in

I’m the cat – and you’re only the staff

Are you Polish?  If you are, close your eyes for the next 90 words.  A man walks into a store.  I’ll have some Polish sausage, he tells the clerk at the counter.  You must be Polish, says the clerk.  That’s a presumptuous insult, says the man.  If I had asked for Italian sausage, would you presume that I’m Italian?  If I had asked for Bratwurst, would you think I’m German?  If I had asked for a kosher hotdog, would you assume I am a Jew?  What gives you the right to presume that I am Polish?  Because, says the clerk, this is a dry-cleaners. 

Does telling that joke mean I’m going to get fired?  Well, that’s ok, I’ll just hang out with Megyn Kelly.

Have you ever gone to a shrink?  Do you know who the first psychiatrist was?  It was Snow White.  Seriously!  When she asked each of her roommates, “Are you happy?” and six of them said no, she figured they needed some help and she hung up a PSYCHIATRIST shingle on the cottage.  But when customers arrived and noticed that all the people coming out of her office were tiny, they all said, “She’s not helping their mental problems, she’s just shrinking them.”  And that’s how the term shrink was born.  Aren’t you happy that I give you all of this information?  No?  You’re not happy?  Go see Snow.

I used to go to a shrink.  I like talking to people, as you can tell, and I liked talking to my shrink.  After all, you’re there to talk and, more important, he’s there to listen.  Your psychiatrist will listen more than your spouse or your kids or your friends.  Almost as much as your hair stylist.  The first time I visited him, I brought a newspaper to read in the waiting room, and, when I was finished reading, I tossed it into the waste basket.  Then I realized it still had my address label attached.  Now, I’m not embarrassed about having visited a shrink, but it’s really not something I discuss with everybody – other than you, of course.  So I retrieved the paper and tore off my name label.  Hey, if you can’t be paranoid in a shrink’s office, where can you?

During the first session, the shrink asked what my family was like when I was growing up and I began to tell him about my lovable lunatic brother and my sad schizophrenic sister.  Wow, he thought he had hit the Mother Lode.  He’d never heard of a family so messed up since The Osbournes.  He was as excited as a Vietnamese chef at a dog park and concluded that with my family history, I was certain to be as misguided as a Liberal on Fox News.  Of course, he was right.   

In more health news, I just finished a book about the electromagnetic spectrum, which includes visible light, ultraviolet rays, microwaves, infrared rays, radio waves, X-rays and gamma rays.  You are all part of the family, so I’ve done the heavy lifting for you and listed the book’s most important tips so you can stay healthy and continue to read my stuff.  Listen up.

• The more atmosphere between you and the sun, the better, because the atmosphere filters out much of the harmful rays.  It is therefore better to live near sea level and near the equator.  Don’t live in Denver or at the North Pole.
• UV-rays are good for you, absolutely necessary to guard against cancer.  Get as much sunshine as you can without getting burned.  It is sunburn that can cause melanoma, not sunshine. 
•  Cellphones are probably not harmful.  Probably!  If there is potential damage, it is from close proximity to your brain.  Use the speaker phone instead of holding the phone to your ear.
•  CT scans provide a lot of harmful radiation.  Much more than X-rays.  Full body CTs are way worse. 

Carol has now raised the stakes -- and the temperature.  Last night she adjusted the heat in our bedroom so that it was too hot for me.  Maybe, she’s thinking in her frizzy little head, that will make me move to a different bedroom.  Are you getting the picture now?  Clothes in the study, tinkles in the hall, sweat in the bedroom.  I’m beginning to feel as welcome as Donald Trump at a Barbra Streisand concert.  Be careful, Honey, I think Megyn Kelly is hot for me.  And I know you’re hot for me too, because you keep coming back every week.  Don’t stop.  I’ll be back in seven days and expect to find you feeling well and counting your blessings.

Happy                                     Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #87

Ok, the Midterm Elections are over.  Are we all aggravated?  I was a little put out (sounds like something you do to a cat).  I voted about five days early, but when I got home, those political ads were still playing on my TV.  Didn’t they know I had already voted?  What’s the point of voting early if you still have to listen to the ads?

Now that it’s over, we can begin moaning and crying that the Good Guys - who lied to us, lied to us some more, and then lied about their lying – didn’t lie enough to defeat the Bad Guys.  And instead of settling in and running the country, our politicians will resume their real task of insulting the other side so you won’t vote for them next time.  Unbelievable!   

Hi there and welcome back.  Sorry about that rant.  I just had to get it off my chest.  Now I feel better and can go back to my usual pattern of bitching about doctors, new-fangled technology and, of course, my lovely wife.  Let’s start with doctors – and Carol.  We were on a plane recently, flying home from North Carolina, and, upon landing, Carol got up, exited the plane and began scooting down the concourse faster than a Kardashian heading for a camera.  I stood up from my seat and banged my head against the bulkhead.  I made it off the plane and up the gangway and then collapsed.  Some nice people picked me up and placed me on a chair, where I sat for ten minutes trying to recover my senses. 

Somewhere ahead, in a galaxy far, far away, Carol had finally noticed that her loyal companion was not where he was supposed to be – ten steps behind her.  So she backtracked and found me in the aforementioned chair.  Her challenge of “Where have you been?” immediately brought me back to reality and reminded me of where I was and who I belonged to, and we proceeded home.

It was not long afterward that I visited a doctor and told him of the incident.  He ordered a CT Scan of my head.  The results were as expected:

Your head needed medical care

I know that it gave you a scare.

But no need to dread

We looked in your head

And, glad to say, found nothing there.

Thank you, Yogi Berra.  But it was the written conclusion that disturbed me.  It declared, in letters bold and capital, that the test showed my highly-trained brain was UNREMARKABLE!

Unremarkable?  My brain?  The nerve!!!  I was insulted.  I have had 23 years of education and unremarkable is the best they can say?  I think I’m going to go back and give them a piece of my unremarkable mind. 

Those doctors have messed with pretty much all of my parts at one time or another, except my gall bladder.  A gall bladder is something that’s just kind of there, but not necessary.  Like a Senator.  Or a Jewish husband.

The world has changed so much.  Last week I called a friend to suggest lunch.  He said he was not in St. Louis.  He goes to Florida a lot, so I called him this week and we met for toasted ravioli.  What, you don’t know what toasted ravioli is?  Then you’re certainly not from St. Louis.  Get on a plane tomorrow and fly here.  Try Manhattan Café; their toasted ravioli is excellent.  At lunch I asked him how Florida was.  “I wasn’t in Florida,” he replied.  “I was in Romania.”  Romania?  I placed a call to a friend and we spoke for a minute and he was in Romania?  How crazy and exotic is that?  I wonder what Dracula’s phone number is.  And who just answers the phone and doesn’t tell me he’s in Romania?  Next time he calls me, I’m going to say I can’t talk right now, I’m in the Saudi Embassy in Istanbul.

Oh, oh – I said the I-Word.  My friends know never to mention Istanbul while Carol and I are around, because we will immediately break into the Four Lads song – Istanbul, not Constantinople, now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople and we will not stop until the end.  Why did Constantinople get the works – that’s nobody’s business but the Turks.

To our grandchildren we are sort of infamous for breaking into song at the least provocation.  If my granddaughter says she’s going to wash her hair, Carol does the entire score from South Pacific.  Oh, no, there go Donny and Marie again.  She’s a little bit Country, he’s a little bit Rock ‘n Old.  Sometimes they even call us The Rolling Crones.   Or Geriatric and His Pacemaker.

Carol and I do the grocery store every week.  She shops, I push.  And believe me, it’s work keeping up with her.  She moves faster than a Kardashian heading for a camera (I liked that one so much, I used it twice), and I move like a silk worm.  Did you hear about the two silk worms that had a race?  They ended in a tie.

It is especially difficult to keep up with her when the store is crowded like last Sunday.  Carts were rolling everywhere and somehow always seemed to be in my way.  And some women (you know who you are) get very aggressive about shopping.  One young woman in a skin-tight, neon jogging set and $150 running shoes actually screamed at me.  “Hey, Old Man, move your asparagus.  The Ensure’s in Aisle 13.”  At least I had the good sense not to talk about her Hawaiian buns.

Women talk a lot, don’t they?  Well, maybe not.  A study published in Science magazine says both women and men say about 16,000 words a day.  That just didn’t sound right to me, so I tested it out, counting my words and Carol’s for an entire 24 hours.  And you know what, they were right!  She said about 16,000 words and I said “Yes, Dear” 8,000 times.

One thing I can do is write a lot of words, and I’m sure you’ve had enough by now.  So take a deep breath and get some rest.  You’ll need it – the 2020 Presidential Campaign starts tomorrow.   Have a nice week, stay well and count your blessings.  See you next time.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com