Blog #131

Well, the Democrats are steadily sliding down the slippery slope of silliness.  In recent days, they have vowed, if elected, to eliminate cows, straws and carbon.  They want to eliminate cows because, well, cows fart and besides it’s cruel to eat them.  They want to eliminate straws because, well, just because.  I’m not sure they know.  The Zoo does not allow straws because we have lost a couple of animals who have choked on straws that have blown into their habitat.  I agree with them on that one.  And now, Bernie Sanders wants to eliminate people.  The world is overpopulated, he says, and we have to reduce the population because, well, people eat cows and the more people we have, the more cows we have and cows fart.  I wonder which people Bernie plans to eliminate.

In order to save me and you

There are several things we must do

We need to make vows

To kill all the cows

And all the Republicans too.

And what are they going to do with all the straws they make illegal?  I have a suggestion.  Send them all to Washington, D.C.  Most of the people there suck anyway. 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling bouncy and happy.  I’m feeling a little nervous actually.  Tomorrow, 5:15 am, is my hip operation.  Oh, my God!  Tomorrow is my hip operation!  I feel like a turkey in November.  I’m sure it will be all right and I’ll have lots of stories to tell you.  But it’s Friday, the 13^th, and I must admit I’m as nervous as Sean Spicer on the first night of Dancing with the Stars.  I’m sure it will be all right.  Did I say that already?  Let’s talk about something else.  I’m a little nervous.

I’ve got my bag packed for the hospital – jammies, a book, reading glasses, a Teddy Bear, pens and paper so I can make notes for writing to you.  I’ve done all my exercises, washed my skin so it’s cleaner than a Joel Osteen Sermon, and I’m as ready as I could be.  But I’m a little nervous.

And a little depressed.  Did you know that you really don’t sound like you think you sound?  That’s right!  The melodious voice that you thought was yours is actually the result of your reedy, thin voice bouncing around inside your own skull.  In truth, I probably sound like Pee Wee Herman to all of you.  And I guess I don’t look like I think I look.  And most people don’t have the high opinion of me that I think they should.  And most people wouldn’t vote for me and I’d probably be the first to get booted off America’s Got Talent.  Ok, this is not cheering me up.  

Carol and I went to a party over the Labor Day weekend.  Forty people, my age, big room, buffet.  I looked around and noticed that all the men – bald or grey, sitting down – were talking about cars, sports and the stock market.  All the girls were on the other side of the room – mostly blond, short, standing, talking about whatever girls talk about.  It reminded me of a junior-high-school dance.

At every party there are two kinds of people – those who want to go home and those who don’t.  The trouble is, they are usually married to each other.  Ann Landers

And what do all these girls talk about when they gather in their noisy little flock?   Michelangelo?  No, they Gossip!  I recently read a scientific article that claims gossiping is an essential element of our social fabric.  Chimpanzees gossip, the article claims, in order to learn which members of the troop are trustworthy, friendly or social-climbing.  Isn’t that what you women are doing?  So keep it up, all you little monkeys, and try not to leave banana skins on the floor.  Yes, I know chimpanzees are not monkeys, but if I called my wife an ape. I’d need both hips and my tongue replaced.

I hate sitting around with the guys talking about cars.  My car is nine years old.  It runs great and never gives me problems.  I’m comfortable in it and know how to work most of it.  But many of my friends must not like their cars.  They get a new one every time Barbra Streisand goes on a Farewell Tour.  Every year or two they show up in a shiny new number that has dozens of new features that they will never learn how to work before they trade it in for a new one.  I was in one the other day with my friend, and he didn’t know how to shift from Drive to Reverse, couldn’t get the Blue Tooth to work and could not manage to get the temperature of the right side of the car within 30 degrees of the left side of the car.  And, the only thing he could get on the radio was C’mon A My House by Rosemary Clooney.  But the console screen is so advanced, it can warn you in a loud and imperious manner whenever you get within a hundred yards of another vehicle, a plastic straw or a MAGA hat.  I hope my car and I last forever, but if it goes before me, I’m getting another nine-year-old model.

I’m running out of time here.  I have to swab my nose until it has fewer germs than Daddy Warbucks has hair.  Then I have to wash my skin with anti-bacterial soap until I’m cleaner than Kirstie Alley’s dessert plate.  Did I tell you I was a little nervous? 

I often get a bit maudlin on Wednesday nights when I say goodbye to you.  I work on the blog, off and on, for an entire week – time, energy, emotions, self-censorship, self-doubt.  And then all of it becomes scrap paper on Thursday morning and I have to start all over.  But I won’t let that stop me from telling you to stay well and count your blessings.  I’ll have plenty of time to write to you next week as I convalesce.  I’m pretty sure #132 will be filled with large helpings of moaning, crying and self-pity.  I wouldn’t even bother to read it if I were you.  See you then.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com