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.
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