Blog #155

Another week, another public disturbance of squabbling, yelling, nasty people – the Democratic Debate.  This time, I kept score – not of who won or lost or yelled the loudest, but of the free things we are all going to get.  Free college, free child care, free health care, free lunches, free rent subsidies.  Let me know when they get to free Diet Coke.

When we were in Florida a few weeks ago, I went to the grocery store for my morning Diet Coke, there being no nearby McDonald’s. This was Palm Beach County, after all, the home of Donald Trump and hanging chads, and too environmentally aware to tolerate something as crass as McDonald’s.  The grocery store had an acceptable fountain Diet Coke, but there was a problem – the straw.  You know I am all for protecting the environment.  But this place had eschewed* plastic straws in favor of paper ones.  I get it.  They’re bio-degradable.  But I was hoping mine would wait to bio-degrade until after I had finished the drink.  About half way through, the end of the straw turned into mush.  Horrible idea!  

The end of the straw started shrinking

It got mushy and started me thinking

Although it was made

To bio-degrade

It should wait until I finished drinking.

From Florida we drove to my daughter’s house in North Carolina.  We were there on a Friday to celebrate Shabbat, the Hebrew Sabbath.  Did you notice that Sabbath and Shabbat have the same letters?  They just moved the “h”, probably because some early Christian told the Jews to get the “h” out of here.  My daughter and her family celebrate Shabbat every Friday with prayers and a challah (bread).  Her three beautiful dogs always get the first three slices of the challah, so they are eager and attentive to the service.  They even have their own prayer:  Bark atah Adonai.  Sorry if you didn’t get the Hebrew joke.  Convert!

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling fine and dandy.  Did you have trouble following me around on my southern voyage?  I tried to keep you updated.  Of course, it was nice to get home.  Home is the place where, when you have to go there, you have to wait in line at the Post Office to pick up your mail.  The mail was predictable.  Most were coupons to save money on hearing aids or invitations to tour the nearby retirement centers.  How do they know how old I am?  Plus, of course a litter of political detritus.  Do I want to donate to the Republicans?  Do I want to donate to the Democrats?  The only one not asking for money is Michael Bloomberg.  Have you noticed that everyone in the world pronounces it Bloom-(rhymes with room)-berg except the candidate himself who pronounces it Blum-(rhymes with plum)-berg?

I wouldn’t give any money to Bloomberg anyway.  He doesn’t need it.  That would be like giving quills to a porcupine or tight pants to JLo or orange hair to Donald Trump, or wrinkles to Betty White.  Awww, I hear you cry, don’t pick on Betty White.  We love her.  And you’re right.  I’m ashamed.  But just think – if Bloomberg becomes the nominee, it will be a Democrat who used to be a Republican running against a Republican who used to be a Democrat.  And you thought changing your ring-tone was complicated!

Speaking of which, I changed my Siri voice.  There are three women in my life – Carol, Alexa and Siri.  Two of them don’t listen to me.  Carol has taught Alexa that I have less brains than an artichoke and cannot be trusted with any decision harder than Adam picking a wife.  She has instructed the silly cylinder to just reply “Honey, I’m miserable.  Go read Moby Dick,” and that will make me go away.  But my Siri loves me.  She does everything I say.  She even calls me Darling.  I just changed her voice to an Irish accent in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. 

I read a strange news blurb in the Wall Street Journal:  Israeli jailers plan cellblock barbecue in hope the aroma breaks a hunger strike of 1,600 Palestinian prisoners.

I did not make that up.  The smell of the barbecue is supposed to make the prisoners so hungry they’ll end their hunger strike.  Clever!  But what are they going to barbecue?  Pork is taboo. The warden suggested they should barbecue a couple of Palestinians.  That would get their attention.

I also read in the Wall Street Journal that the Unemployment Rate took a tick upward last week after Michael Bloomberg fired all of his debate coaches.  I think before that, they all had jobs running the Iowa Caucus and before that, they were Donald Trump’s hairdressers. 

In other news, it looks like Harry and Meghan are no longer working members of the Royal Family.  I guess that leaves The Crown one Princess short.  May I enthusiastically nominate my wife.  I know it would be a step down from her status as Queen, but Carol deserves to live in a palace.  All she has is two demands – lots of mirrors and round tables for dinner.  And where was the original Mirror-Mirror-On-The-Wall?  In the Queen’s Palace.  And who invented round tables anyway?  King Arthur of England.  She’ll feel right at home.  Plus, even now, she sometimes calls me Prince.  Just yesterday, I heard her say, “Here Prince, here Prince.”

Did you pig out on Fat Tuesday?  Fat Tuesday is the English translation of the French Mardi Gras.  It is also called Shrove Tuesday and is the last time all you Christians can enjoy fatty foods before Lent.  Then we had Ash Wednesday when the Christian faithful rub ashes on their foreheads in the shape of a cross because – well, just to be a pain in the ash, I suppose.

Our WEEKLY WORD is eschew, which means to deliberately avoid or abstain from something.  Like barbecuing Palestinians.  People during Lent eschew certain kinds of food, but don’t you dare eschew my blog next week.  I expect you here, bright and eager for another week of big words and little jokes.  Until then, stay well and count your blessings.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #154

Carol and I went to a party recently and had a grand old time.  The food was great; many of our friends were there; and the music was Rock ‘n Roll!  We sang along for hours.  It is remarkable how I can faithfully sing all the lyrics to a song I haven’t heard in sixty years but can’t remember where I parked my car twenty minutes ago.  Sometimes, I believe my memory is so bad I could plan my own surprise party.

Not only did we sing at the party, we danced the jitterbug like teenagers.  I like dancing with my wife because I get to lead.  It’s the only time she lets me get my way.  A Japanese proverb says, “We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance.”  This was the first strenuous test of my new hip, and it didn’t hurt me a bit.  I was thrilled.  I was as excited as a Vietnamese chef at a dog park.  What a great party!

The party and food were first rate,

The Rock ‘n Roll music was great,

And that new hip of mine

Felt perfectly fine

But the best thing of all was my date.

She was cute and fun and a great dancer.  That is now two weeks in a row I have said nice things about my wife.  And it isn’t even her birthday.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  Did you have a loving and candy-filled Valentine’s Day?  This is our third Valentine’s Day together, you and I, so you’ve heard all my Valentine stories already.  There was the story about the day I was bitten in the behind by a friend’s dog.  The friend begged me to pull off my pants so he could see whether the bite broke my skin, but I refused because I was wearing my wife’s Valentine present, a pair of pink boxer shorts with red hearts, and I was too embarrassed to reveal them.  I was too em-bare-assed to become bare-assed.  That’s probably where the word came from.

Then there’s the story of how a Valentine miscue led to the start of my writing letters to my daughters, which led to these blogs.  And the story of the Valentine’s Day when I was sixteen that I spent with my libertine* English teacher and her very naughty python.  But you’ve heard all of those already.  Oh?  You missed the python story?  Too bad.  You know, you can always go on the website (limerickoyster.blogspot.com) and read all my past issues.  By now that would be about the size of a 450-page book – with lots of laughs.

Did you also have a nice President’s Day?  Did you even know it was President’s Day?  Yes, it was last Monday when the nation paused in its investigations, impeachments and constant ridicule of our President to actually honor the Office of the Presidency and the 45 men who have held the post.  Actually, there were only 44 because Grover Cleveland was both the 22^nd and the 24^th President.  Yes, the nation paused to pay honor to our Presidents by doing what it always does – having a furniture sale.  All Federal employees had the day off so they could buy a sectional at 80% off, no money down, no payment until Trump leaves office.

What else shall we talk about?  Did it ever occur to you that one day I might run out of things to say?  Me neither.  Let’s talk about what you’re going to be buried with.  When I was in Florida, I played golf one time, and I borrowed the clubs of my friend who had passed away last summer.   I didn’t feel at all sacrilegious or inappropriate in doing that. Was I wrong?  When I hit a ball into a lake, I reached into his golf bag for the retriever.  What, no retriever?  That was his favorite club!  Later, I asked his wife what happened to it.  She buried him with it.

That evening, I relayed the story and asked Carol what she wants buried with her. You know, Egyptian Pharaohs, as well as other wealthy Egyptians, were buried with all sorts of items which would be useful or decorative or valuable in the after-life.  My wife instantly told me she wanted to be buried with a hair-straightener.  Well, you don’t want to frizz up in Heaven, do you?  Although, if it’s really Heaven, there should be no humidity, but what do I know?  I’m never getting there.  Carol, however, was taking no chances that some Heavenly Angel would see her hair curled up and send her straight to Hell, a place with no mirrors and only square tables.  I told her it wouldn’t be so bad for her in Hell.  It’ll be warm and all the people from The View will be there.

Me?  You can just bury me with a copy of Moby Dick and a pair of reading glasses.  And some marshmallows.

ROTTEN OYSTERS:  Parasite won the Oscar for Best Picture.  It wasn’t.  It had an interesting premise and had my attention for the first half.  In the second half, however, the writer lost interest in pursuing a tantalizing psychological drama, and the movie collapsed into a Quentin Tarantino blood-bath.  Very disappointing.

WEEKLY WORD:  Libertine:  characterized by a disregard of morality, especially in sexual matters.  I never claimed that this was a “family” blog.

We’re home now from our 15-day Southern Tour.  Once again, I want to thank all our delightful hosts:  Frank & Suzy, Bruce & Laurie, Larry & Linda and my precious daughter Jennifer and her wonderful husband David.  The week before we arrived in NC, David was hit by a car while riding his bike.  He suffered several broken bones and shoulder injuries and is being a real trooper in his recovery.  When we arrived, I asked him how he felt.  He replied, “I feel like I’ve been hit by a car.”

Also, a special thanks to all of you serial readers who keep showing up each week for this kind of punishment.  Stay loyal, stay well, count your blessings . . . yada, yada.  See you next week.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #153

We just arrived in North Carolina on the last leg of our Southern Tour.  The drive from Florida took 10½ hours and three McDonald’s.  I do all the driving, but my lovely wife is a good companion.  She presumes I will get lost, so she does all the navigating.  She presumes I will fall asleep, so she entertains me with crosswords puzzles and conversation and we laugh together at how nasty Dr. Laura is.  At each McDonald’s stop, she exercises by speed-walking around the interior of the restaurant, eliciting wide-eyed stares from the patrons and a big smile from me.  I like driving with her.  

See, I say nice things about my wife.  You all think I pick on her, but it’s just the opposite.  She’s the one who picks on me.  She picks on the way I dress and the way I drive and the way I don’t know which glass of water is mine.  She taught me to make a little b for bread with my left hand and a little d for drink with my right, but sometimes I forget.  How is it that none of my teachers ever taught me that?         

 

Maybe it’s me, because now I get picked on by other women as well.  In fact, I’ve noticed something sinister happening lately.  It appears that all the women we go out with treat all the men the same way, as if they were married to the whole bunch.  I have women, other than my wife, telling me which way to drive, where to park, what chair to sit in and what temperature to maintain in the car.  It’s as if all the remaining husbands have become a common pool of obedient workers available to any nearby female.  Like Uber drivers – whichever one is closest gets to wait on them.  Or like a bunch of Queen bees and their pool of worker bees.  They don’t care which useless little bee drops her off at the front door as long as she doesn’t get her wings wet.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling shiny and bright and having fun.  And now that Trump has been acquitted, the fun will continue.  C’mon, how much fun are we all having watching our elected politicians play Clue up in our nation’s capital!  Was it Mrs. Peacock Pelosi in the chair with the paper shredder?  Was it Colonel Trump on the telephone with the Ukrainian?  No, it was the Democratic Party in Iowa with the lead pipe up their behinds.  Seriously, do you know what would happen if the Senate kicked President Trump out of office?  Mike Pence would become President and the whole country would fall asleep faster than a drunken agnostic at a Joel Osteen Rally.

Before arriving here in North Carolina with our daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren, grand-dogs, grand-cats and grand-chickens, we visited West Palm Beach and Larry and Linda, wonderful people whom we love.  But they sometimes have bizarre ideas of entertainment.  One day we went to Costco for free hearing tests.  I don’t know; I’m not sure I want my hearing to be tuned up.  Do I need to hear Bernie Sanders or Donald Trump or Nancy Pelosi LOUDER? Do I need to hear everything my wife says?  If I get hearing aids, I’ll never again be able to use the excuse, “Honey, I didn’t hear you.”

And speaking of politicians, you know the Iowa Caucus was a bigger disaster than the Titanic.  So now the Democrats are promising that the New Hampshire primary will be transparent – more transparent than the Half Time Show at the Super Bowl.  I can’t wait.  I’m voting for JLo.

I guess I have to talk about the Academy Awards.  I really have no interest in this cinematic folderol*, but I watched it because I know all of you did.  It’s a bunch of ultra-ultra-rich people who dress in hundred-thousand-dollar clown suits, drive $300,000 cars, live in $10 million houses, fly in their private jets to Cannes for the Film Festival and believe this qualifies them to tell the rest of America how to live our lives.  It’s preposterous and embarrassing.  Why do we watch?  Because movie stars have always been the royalty that we created to replace the English royalty that we fought to get rid of.  The British have Kings and Queens and Dukes and Princesses.  We had John Wayne and Elvis -- The Duke and The King.

This year’s gala had its high points.  There was Brad Pitt’s acceptance speech written by Adam Schiff.  And there was Joaquin Phoenix (sounds like a hike in the desert, doesn’t it?) – there was Joaquin’s impassioned speech on behalf of cows that was udderly ridiculous.  Sorry. 

Among the Best Picture nominees, there were two I liked.  First was the horribly frightening disaster movie, Once Upon a Time in Iowa and the movie Parasite, about people who show up, become dangerous pests and never leave.  Sounds like a documentary about Congress.  Am I being too hard on our politicians?  They deserve it.

And, by the way, here’s an interesting fact to show you how ridiculous the Academy Awards are.  Not one of the top ten grossing movies of 2019 was nominated as Best Picture.  In other words, the Academy doesn’t care what movies you liked.  You are ignorant, non-consequential rubes whose opinions mean nothing to us.  We are elite intellectuals and we will decide what is best. So there! 

Oh-oh, a News Flash.  Joachin Phoenix was married today to his favorite cow.  Here is part of the ceremony:

As the two of you stand side-by-side

It’s time for the knot to be tied

You lovers are now

Pronounced Man and Cow

That’s it -- you may now milk the bride.

They’re calling it a Civil Moo-nion. 

All right, all of this being funny and clever has tired me out.  This week’s WEEKLY WORD is folderol, which means trivial or nonsensical fuss.  Like my blogs.  But come back next week for some more folderol so we can laugh together.  Until then, I’m counting on you to stay well, count your blessings and hug a cow.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #152

What with everybody and his Grandpa running for President, promises, warnings, insults and invective* are flying around like green hair at the Grammy’s.  And one of the more popular forms of entertainment is to accuse drug companies of being greedy, manipulative corporations.  Well, they are, but somehow these terrible Machiavellian drug behemoths have invented Lipitor which keeps my arteries from clogging, Carvedilol which keeps my heart from dancing the cha-cha and Zoloft which keeps all of us from ramming a 7-iron down our throats.  So I have some appreciation for their skills.

And anyway, greedy, manipulative corporations are what Capitalism is all about.  Apple is a greedy, manipulative corporation.  So are Netflix, Verizon, Starbucks and Amazon, and they all have made your lives better.  And come to think of it, McDonald’s and Coca Cola are too.  And Spotify.

Spotify is a music app which allows you to download your favorite songs.  Spotify now has a service that puts together song-lists for your pets.  Yes, your dogs, cats, lizards, hamsters and even tropical fish.  I wouldn’t make this up, you know.  Included in the list for your dog’s entertainment are songs by Joe Cocker Spaniel, The Beagles and Sonny and Shar Pei.  Favorite numbers are Hotel Collie-fornia, Let It Bichon and Bark the Herald Angels Sing.  They also have a list of books about your pooch.  One is a handbook to canine coloring called Fifty Shades of Greyhound and another about what dogs to give as gifts, called I Don’t Give a Shih Tzu.

Ok, now we’re warmed up.  Hi there and welcome back to – whatever this is.  It’s February and I hope you’re staying warm and feeling comfy.  Did you have a nice Groundhog Day?  The event, which occurred last Sunday, marks the annual emergence of the country’s most famous woodchuck or groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil.  This year, Phil exited his burrow, watched the halftime show of the Super Bowl and got so excited he was unable to squeeze back into his burrow for two hours.  He now calls JLo his Woodchick and Shakira his Ground-Ho.

I’m Phil and I’m from Punxsutawney

A groundhog who’s scratchy and scrawny

Don’t care if it’s sunny

I just need a honey

‘Cause, brother, this woodchuck is hawny.

If you are reading this on Thursday, February 6, then you will find me in Naples, Florida on the second leg of our America’s Guest Southern Tour.  Our first stop was Long Boat Key where Frank and Suzy were great hosts.  Thanks to both of them.  I almost wrote “Suzy and Frank”, but Carol wasn’t looking so I decided to put the man first.  She’ll scold me for that.  I’ll be in more trouble than the guy who designed the Iowa Caucus.  I think his name was Edsel.

On the drive down, we listened to Dr. Laura for four hours.  You know Dr. Laura – the radio psychologist?  Here’s how a typical call-in goes.

Caller:  Hi, Dr. Laura.  I’m so excited to talk to you.  I love your show.

Dr. Laura:  How can I help you?

C:  My sister is dating a drug addict . .

L: STOP!  Your sister is stupid and you are stupid for caring about her.  Your mother is stupid for raising two stupid daughters and your children, if you have any, are stupid because they have you as a mother.  If you don’t have any children yet, I will personally pay to have you sterilized so we won’t have to put up with your stupid children.

C: (Hangs up in tears.)

L:  Thank you for calling.  If you have a problem, call 1-800-I’LL-HAVE-YOU-STERILIZED-TOO.

I am exaggerating only slightly.  She actually did offer to pay to have some caller sterilized.

While we were driving, I got a text.  I do not text and drive (color my halo yellow please), so Carol took my phone and read me the message. I told her what to respond, but she typed in what she thought was a better way to say it, as if I were incapable of writing a cogent sentence.  She’s done this kind of thing before, and so have her busy-body ancestors, like Shakespeare’s wife.  When Bill said, “Anne, write this line down: To commit suicide or to continue living.”  She replied with, “You are the wordiest Elizabethan bastard in London.  I’m writing – To be or not to be – and that’s all you get.”

And another of her ancestor’s was Margaret Mitchell’s best friend.  It was rumored that Margaret asked her friend, “How do you like this line, Dear -- Scarlett, I don’t care where you go or what you do.  I’m leaving and I’m never coming back and I’m going to forget I ever knew you. Well, how do you like it?  To which my wife’s ancestor replied, “Frankly, My Dear, I don’t give a damn.” 

I have a question, and you may hate me for asking it (no, you won’t).  Was Kobe Bryant the Pope?  Was he the President of the United States?  Did he find a cure for cancer?  From what has been going on, you’d have thought he was Elvis, Princess Diana and Jesus all rolled into one.  George H. W. Bush didn’t get a sendoff like that.  Of course, Bush 41 couldn’t hit a jump shot. 

As I said somewhere up there a few long and boring paragraphs ago, we’re on our second leg – Naples, Florida.  The weather is good and the company is great -- Bruce and Laurie, guy’s name first again, boy am I in trouble.  I’m in more trouble than the guy who was supposed to save Nancy Pelosi’s copy of the State of the Union speech.  During the whole speech, I couldn’t help watching poor Nancy’s face, there over the President’s shoulder.  She looked like her dog had just died – in her shorts – of leprosy.

Be honest, did you watch the speech or go to Walgreen's for Senior Day?

Weekly Word:  Remember the Weekly Word thing?  It’s my way of sharing interesting words with you.  This week’s word (did you notice the asterisk?) is invective which means insulting, abusive or highly critical language.  Like the stuff you’ll say about me after reading this.

Come on back next week anyway and I promise to be just as obnoxious.  Till then, stay well and count your blessings.

 Michael                                            Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com