Blog #119
Well, it's finally
happened! I knew it would come to this
eventually. Carol has become jealous of
my blogging fame and, in a sad effort at piggy-backing on my verbal skills, has
begun her own YouTube channel where she reads my latest blog, adding her
own snarky little comments. So, if you
want to see the woman I’ve been married to for 52 years and her pitiful display
of female self-aggrandizement, go to Limerick Oyster 117 on
YouTube and subscribe or sign up or whatever.
She looks cute.
I have four grandsons, so I
know what a bris is. A bris
is a Jewish religious male circumcision ceremony performed by a circumciser
called a mohel (pronounced moil) on the
eighth day of the infant’s life. Got
that right out of Google. And what, I
hear you cry, does Google have to do with circumcisions? Well, I believe google is the exact sound that comes from a weak-stomached
Grandfather during the grandson’s bris.
You see, I had a bris
when I was eight days old. Luckily, I
don’t remember most of it, but what I do remember are my exact thoughts upon
seeing a strange person approaching me with a razor in his hand. I was only a baby, but even then my thoughts
rhymed.
I think I should go
back inside
Where I never spit-up
or cried
My God, there’s a mohel
I hope I’m a goil
Cause if I’m a boy I
should hide.
I have no sons, only three
wonderful daughters. The first bris
I witnessed close up was eighteen years ago when Zachary (Grandchild #1) was
born. There were about twenty family and
friends in attendance, and, of course, the mohel. I was assigned the duty of carrying the
clueless little baby to the table. Poor
kid, he knew as little about what he was getting into as people who voted for
Trump. I held him down – me, the poster
boy for Vasovagal Reaction -- trying to keep my eyes averted from my boy’s
soon-to-be-reduced weenie and the instrument-wielding religious maniac bent on
doing the deed. And then it was
over. I survived, Zach survived, his
mother survived, and everybody ate bagels.
Hi there and welcome
back. Now where else, I ask you, can you
find someone willing to share such personal and lurid details with you. Maybe the Jerry Springer Show. I hope all you Dads had a Happy Father’s Day. Almost 400 years ago, George Herbert wrote, “One
father is more than a hundred schoolmasters.” One of my favorite sayings!
We had a lovely dinner at my
daughter Abby’s house. The Thursday
before that, my wife asked me, “What would you like to eat for Father’s
Day.” As all you married men
know, this was not a simple question. In
fact, it wasn’t a question at all, but an exercise in spousal
manipulation. You see, Carol had no
interest in knowing what I wanted to eat for Father’s Day. The purpose of her question was to maneuver
me into choosing the food she wanted. Here’s how it works:
C: Honey, what do
you want to eat for Father’s Day? You
get whatever you want.
M: Well, I really
don’t care.
C: How about
Chinese or barbecued hot dogs or a tossed salad with garlic bread?
See what she did there? She narrowed my choices to three, one of
which was hers. Now she had a 33% chance
of having me pick her favorite. Then she
could look like a loving heroine by saying, “Ok, that’s what we’ll
have. Just for you.” I usually pick wrong.
M: I like
Chinese.
C: You know, we
just had Chinese two months ago, and I actually didn’t like mine.
M: Chinese people
eat it every day and there are a billion of them. Ok, hot dogs.
C: Honey, I hate
to see you eat something that’s bad for your heart.
Mission accomplished. She controlled me like an astronaut docking a
space module. She gets what she wants
for dinner and makes me believe she was doing it out of love for me.
A praying mantis is a
thoughtful creature. After copulation,
the female mantis immediately eats her mate, saving him from decades of mental
punishment. Not being as fortunate as a
male mantis, I have been through 52 years of this Lucy pulling the
football away from Charlie Brown routine, and this year, I refused to
play. So when she asked what I wanted
for dinner, I just said, “I have no input and I’m not answering any questions.” And anyway, who cares? It’s only one meal. It all comes out the same color in the
morning. Oops, that was some more Jerry
Springer stuff. Sorry.
I have to tell you this
little story. My local grandchildren got
a hamster. I love animals, but hamsters
are not my favorite. They bite. Last night, Tyler, my 13-year-old Grandchild
#4, was playing with the hamster when the little beast bit into his fingertip
and hung on. The cage is on the upstairs
landing, and Tyler was playing with the miniature Godzilla on the carpet. The bite hurt and Tyler shook his hand to get
rid of the monster. It didn’t work. The hamster held on tighter than Kim
Kardashian holding on to a spotlight.
Tyler flicked his wrist harder, and the hamster let go on the
upswing. The little furball flew into
the air, over the railing and down all the way to the first floor. Tyler was hysterical, inconsolable. He had just caused the calamitous death of the
poor little pet that he loved. A hamster
falling one story is the same as you falling off a 65-story building. Except the hamster is built like a
Twinkie. It’s round and compact and
covered with softness. It hit the floor,
looked around and crawled away. He was
easily retrieved and put back, unharmed, into his cage. Tyler felt better. I told him to throw the little Gremlin down
the stairs again the next time it bit him.
It might teach him a lesson.
Ok, enough! I mean, how much can you take? But I’ll be back. Remember now, if you want the truth, come
back to me next week. If you want to
watch a bunch of bitter, feminine lies go to Limerick Oyster 117
on YouTube. Did I tell you she looked
cute? Stay well, count your
blessings. I’m sure counting mine.
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