Blog #242                                         October 28, 2028

 

People send me all kinds of stuff, trying to help me with the blog.  I ignore most of it, but here’s a good one:  The federal government, which has a Tomahawk Missile and Apache, Blackhawk and Kiowa helicopters, officially objects to the name Washington Redskins.

 

In other compelling news, The St. Louis Cardinals are going to pay a pitcher $17.5 million for one year.  The average salary for a police officer in St. Louis is about $50,000.  We can either have one pitcher or 350 police officers.  What is wrong with us?  Where have we lost our way?  Sure, the Cardinals bring in lots of tourists who spend money at hotels and restaurants.  And who protects these tourists from being shot, robbed, raped or car-jacked in the parking lot?  Police officers!  And why are all the police officers outside protecting us?  Because they can’t afford to be inside where it costs $200 for the officer, spouse and two kids to go to the game.  But look at all the tax dollars that these tourists bring in.  Great, and what does the city do with all the tax dollars?  They sure don’t pay their police officers.  They just investigate their police officers and reprimand their police officers and prosecute their police officers.  But we have a pitcher. 

 

We have become a society where singers, actors and athletes make exorbitant millions, but where teachers, police officers and firefighters make a pitifully low wage.  We pay more to be entertained than we do to be protected or educated.  P. Diddy made $130 million last year.  I don’t even know what a P. Diddy is!  Shame

on us!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying calm.  I guess you can tell I’m a little angry this week.  Angry about how little we pay our police officers, angry about the decline of manners and culture.  Angry that Superman can no longer help us because he has nowhere to change clothes.

 

Ok, I looked up who P. Diddy is.  He’s a rapper.  You know, the guy who sings the Hip Hop, Bee Bop, Doggie Flop, Kill a Cop kind of music we all love and cherish.

 

I was at a real-estate closing some years ago where all the signatures had to be notarized.  The notary asked to see everyone’s Driver’s License, but one participant didn’t have one.  She did, however, display her Missouri Non-Driver’s License.  I had no idea you needed a license to not be something you’re not.  But the law’s the law, and I rushed over to the License Bureau and immediately applied for a Non-Barber’s License, a Non-Dentist’s License, a Non-Rapper’s License, a Non-Undertaker’s License and several dozen others. 

 

To avoid being branded a felon

I did what the law was compellin’

Now a license I’ve got

For each thing that I’m not

And my wallet’s the size of a melon.

 

My St. Louis daughter and son-in-law are off to Mexico to celebrate their 20^th Anniversary, so Carol and I have moved into their house (only four minutes from our own) to hover over and annoy the two boys, one girl, two cats and one dog.  This morning, around 7:00, the boys started munching on various things and, although I usually don’t eat breakfast, I decided a snack would be nice.  I asked Austin if there was some breakfast stuff I could heat up and he dragged a strange orange box from the freezer – Eggwich Breadless Breakfast Sandwich it said.  On this ugly, orange box was a picture of some sandwich-shaped thing that was unappetizing enough to be a hockey puck.  The picture was accompanied by this description:  Turkey sausage and American cheese nestled between 2 egg patties.  And what question immediately squirmed out of my disease-infested mind?  Who does the nestling?  Do they have a nestler?  Is there a Chief Nestler and an Apprentice Nestler?  Do I need a Non-Nestler’s License?  What is your grandson majoring in at college?  Oh, he’s majoring in Nestling.   I also wondered why they chose to say 2 egg patties instead of two egg patties.  All this intense wondering made me even hungrier, so I began 2 search the box for heating instructions.  I ignored the little sentence that read Use by the Nixon Administration, found the microwaving instructions and removed the one remaining sandwich.  The picture on the box had not come close to displaying the disgusting, decayed and grotesque countenance of the little thing, but I was invested in it already and threw it into the microwave.  One minute and 40 seconds later, I brought it out, blew on it, gingerly brought it to my mouth and cautiously took a bite.  The damn thing was delicious.

 

Sorry for being such a curmudgeon this week.  I know life sucks sometimes, but, as my father always said, “I count my blessings.  My cup runneth over.”  So let’s count our blessings and try to find a smile once in a while.  Let’s see, how can I make you smile today?

 

Do you have a Spellchecker?  Of course you do.  That’s the program that corrects the spelling and punctuation on your computer or iPhone.  I have a Spellchecker on my Microsoft Word program.  That’s the program I use to write this thing.  I call it Speedy the Spellchecker, and Speedy tries to correct all my spelling and punctuation miscues.  For instance, I just used the word runneth.  Speedy, having apparently never read the King James Bible, had a conniption and told me I couldn’t do it.  Well, Speedy, kisseth my asseth!  I’m going to use it anyway.  If Shakespeare had had a Spellchecker, he would have been forced to say Romeo, Romeo, where the hell are you?  Or, Holy crap, Brutus! 

 

There, I bet I made you smile.  The Weekly Word is curmudgeon, which means a bad-tempered or surly person.  I’ll be nicer next week and try to make you smile again, so stayeth well and cometh back.  And counteth those blessings.  Oh, and enjoy your Halloween.  You’re wearing a mask anyway; you might as well look scary.  Most people think I look scary when I take mine off.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I had most need of blessing (Macbeth).  Even though I’m a cat, I count my blessings too.  Let me see – Pops, Pops and Pops.  That’s three blessings right there.  Purreth.

 

 

 

Blog #241                                         October 21, 2021

 

In an embarrassing and frightening sign of our times, the Art Institute of Chicago has fired all of its docents.  Docents are volunteers who spend a considerable amount of time learning about art history in general and the Institute’s collections in particular, as well as organizing tours to inform and educate the patrons of the museum.  The problem is that most of the volunteers at the Institute are rich, white women and the management is filled with sanctimonious chagrin that its docent staff, who work for free, is not more diverse.  Here’s what the Chairman of the Institute said, “Critical self-reflection and participatory, recuperative action is required if we are to remain relevant to the changing audiences seeking connection to art.”  What?  Is that English?  Did Lewis Carroll write that?  I thought my stuff was a little flowery sometimes, but that was an entire hothouse of woke-babble!  The result is that the Art Institute has jettisoned more than a hundred dedicated, intelligent, hard-working volunteers because they were the wrong color.  As Thornton Wilder said, Ninety-nine percent of the people in the world are fools and the rest of us are in great danger of contagion.     

My granddaughter recently told me that some new neighbors had moved in.  I asked if they had any kids.  Yes, she said, Alice and David.  They must be Chinese, I said.  She was stunned!  I was right!  I’m sure you have noticed that young American children are all Kaneesha and Fulton and Morgan and Meghan and Bryce and Beckett and Odin and Ahmad?  If you find an Alice or a David, I guarantee you they’re Chinese.

What happened to the good old names?  Good, solid names like Michael and Carol, Linda and Larry, Ward and June, Ozzie and Harriet, Ralph and Alice, George and Gracie?  Good old Mouseketeer names!   The first seven winners of the Scripps National Spelling Bee in the 1920s and 1930s were Frank, Pauline, Dean, Betty, Virginia, Helen and Ward.  The seven most recent winners were Vanya, Jairam, Ananya, Karthik, Rishik and Zaila.  I guess if they could spell their own names, they could spell anything.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and staying warm.  Are you ready for Halloween?  It’s only ten days away.  I think you should go as a witch.  No, no, don’t get insulted.  There are all kinds of witches.

 

·        You could be a good witch, like Glinda

·        Or a wicked witch like Almira Gulch.

·        You could be a male witch, which is called a Warlock

·        Or a female witch, which is called a Sorceress

·        Or a transgender witch, which is called a Switch.

·        Or you and some friends could be a whole gathering of witches, which is called The View.

 

Carol and I have a lot of wonderful friends, and we like to meet with them for dinner on Friday and Saturday nights.  We have spent the spring and summer weekends eating outside at restaurants.  All restaurants have tried to provide outdoor accommodations during Covid and we haven’t had problems.  But now, the weather is turning cool and outdoor conditions are no longer an option, so the plan has changed to:  let’s bring in food and eat in someone’s house.  I don’t like it.  I don’t like bringing in food.  It’s not hot and reheating ruins it.  Plus, if it’s wrong, you’re S-O-L.

 

My preference is to eat indoors.  We’ve all gotten three shots.  I have more holes in my left arm than a miniature golf course and Covid cases are dropping.  But do I get my way?  I’ll let you guess:

 

                             I do not like food that is old,

That’s been lying around getting cold.

But my beautiful mate,

With a smile, set me straight

“Just shut up and do what you’re told.”

 

It’s comforting to know your place in the world.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find (The Passionate Pilgrim).  I don’t have any cat friends.  I don’t know any other cats.  Pops is my best friend.  And I know he’s your friend too.  But I bet he doesn’t rub your belly.  If he does, call Carol.  Purr.

 

Along with the cooler weather and the approach of Halloween, the mornings are darker.  I decided the other day that I might do better picking out my clothes in the dark, so I just groped around the closet and pulled out the stuff that “felt” right.  When I was dressed, I walked into the front of the house for Carol to look me over.  An interesting combination, she said.  It’s a lot better than most days.  

 

I smiled and went for my annual physical.  It started with Dr. Doctor asking me how I felt.  “It’s not important how I feel,” I replied.  “What’s important is how my wife feels.”  Carol had instructed me to use my appointment to get an opinion about some pain in her back.  It is, after all, ALL ABOUT HER.  Last week, she came into my study one evening to talk to me.  “When’s your skin doctor appointment?”  I told her it was the next day.  “Mine’s in three weeks.  I want to switch appointments with you.”  I got up the next morning, called Dr. Skin’s office and, through an amalgam of honey-tongued persuasion, bribery, bald threats and pitiful begging, was able to switch the appointments.  As you know, my wife and I have the same goal in life – to make her happy!  At the end of my physical exam, the doctor said, “Everything looks fine.  I’ll see you next year.  And I like your outfit.”

 

Have you heard from Meghan and Harry lately, since they’ve been thrown out of the Royal Family like a couple of rotten plums?  I’ve heard a rumor that they are working on two new Netflix series called No Succession and Game of No Thrones.

 

Weekly Word:  Amalgam means a mixture or blend, and this edition has certainly been an amalgam of unconnected, uninteresting and unfunny paragraphs.  Just like always.  I hope you liked it and will come back next week.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and try dressing in the dark.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #240                                         October 14, 2021

 

He did it.  William Shatner, Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise went to space yesterday in one of Jeff Bezos’ toys.   At 90, Shatner was the oldest person to fly in space, replacing Mary Wallace Funk who was 82 when she flew a few months ago, but I wondered if Shatner was the first Jew in space, so I looked it up.  It turns out, he wasn’t.  My research showed that the first Jew in space was actually a Russian, Boris Volynov, who flew in the Soyuz Program in 1969.  But then I dug even deeper, and uncovered evidence revealing that the first Jew in space was actually Noah.  Yes, that Noah.  When Noah’s wife heard he had brought two of everything on board, including two hookers, she kicked his kosher ass so hard he was in orbit for three days.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and trying to find something entertaining and exciting.  Let’s see, what exciting, uplifting and optimistically thrilling things happened to me today?  I went to the library to pick up a book and I had my corns shaved.  If that isn’t Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, what is?

 

The International Day of the Girl was celebrated this week.  I was underwhelmed. I have a wife of 54 years, three daughters and four granddaughters.  It has been the Day of the Girl in my house every day for half a century.

 

I’m a Walmart guy.  Well, I used to be.  In the past few months, Walmart has turned into a third-world experience.  Their shelves are in disarray and there are no checkers.  I can work the self-checkout machines -- they’re fairly easy -- but I abhor that those machines replace the jobs which actual people should have.  It does not make any sense to make things more efficient and more profitable if people don’t have jobs or, even worse, don’t want jobs.  People need to work – to support themselves and to promote a feeling of self-worth.  For the sake of the laborers, it would be sheer cruelty to afflict them with excessive leisure.  That’s what it says in Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  O brave new world, that has such people in ‘t! (The Tempest).   Isn’t it strange how so many familiar phrases and book titles come from plays written by that old man who stole my name?  I, myself, have written a few plays:  Antony and Cleo-cat-ra, Comedy of Purrs and Romeo and Mewliet.  Purr.

 

Back to Walmart.  The problem with the self-check was that the bags into which I planned to place my scanned stuff could not be separated from one another.  I had two Walmart employees (yes, I found 2) telling me the bags were impossible to separate as they helpfully ripped and shred clumps of useless bags.  This is the largest retailer in the Solar System and its bags don’t open!  How much more evidence do you need that the world is broken beyond repair?  James Taylor had a great song called Everybody’s Got the Blues.  Count me in.  Huey Lewis had another great song called I Wanna New Drug.  Count me in on that one too.

 

Let’s talk about art.  I have to admit that, when it comes to art, I am a boor and an ignorant troglodyte.  First of all, I cannot draw at all.  I hate playing those games where people have to guess what someone else has drawn.  Everything I draw comes out looking like a Big Mac.  Therefore, I appreciate the talent an artist needs to make splotches of paint look so realistic and colorful.  But when it comes to more modern forms of art, I don’t get it.  My theory is, if I can do it, it’s not art.  I can take a canvas and cover it with red paint.  Anybody could, but I can’t tell you how many times I have seen such “art” displayed in museums.  I was in a museum in Arkansas once, staring at a canvas that was completely covered in one shade of blue.  I moseyed (I can mosey when I have to) over to a docent and asked what he thought was the attraction of this piece of art.  He smirked, shook his head slowly and replied, “Beats the hell out of me.”

 

So you can imagine my chagrin when my wife told me we were going to some Van Gogh event.  Mind you, she did not ask me; she told me.  The way she put it, I did not have a choice:

 

“It’s a stunning immersive event

And the whole thing is held in a tent.

It’s a fabulous show

And we have to Van Gogh.”

So I got all dressed up and Van Went.

 

Yes, I Van Went to the Van Tent.  There were no paintings, only a large empty room covered in canvas material upon which a panoply of projectors streamed a continually changing array of Vincent’s art work accompanied by music.  It was an impressive accomplishment and, I thought, very entertaining.  I still don’t like Van Gogh’s work and don’t care about his ear or his horribly depressed life.  But I was definitely entertained by the show. 

 

Troglodyte is our Weekly Word.  It means a person who lives in a cave, or is otherwise known for being reclusive (Guilty as charged!) or having outmoded tastes (Ditto)! 

 

In addition to being a troglodyte, I guess I am a prude as well. We had dinner at my daughter’s house one night this week.  After dinner, the kids sat down to watch television.  I was horrified at the kind of shows they were allowed to watch.  Just imagine if, when we were kids, we were allowed to watch shows where:

 

·        Father Knows Best has an affair with his secretary; 

·        Hoss Cartwright gets caught with a sheep;

·        Carol Brady raises money for the PTA by selling nude photos of Marcia;

·        Howdy Doody has a woody;

·        Dr. Cliff Huxtable drugs and assaults 29 women.

·        We find out that “Kemosabe” really means “Steaming Stud Muffin.”

 

Alright, it’s time to go now.  I have to sweep out the cave and wash my brain out with soap.  See you next week.  Stay calm, stay well and count your blessings.

 

Tonto                                      Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #239                                         October 7, 2021

 

On Tuesday morning, I took my walk outside – about a mile and a quarter through my subdivision and out onto the two-lane residential street.  It was a lovely day and a pleasant walk, but I was saddened by the amount of litter on the road and sidewalk.  Wednesday morning, I went out armed with a trash bag and a stick.  I used the stick to pick up seven or eight plastic drink bottles and various pieces of paper.  I grabbed a flattened, discarded cardboard box lying in the street and schlepped my collection of flotsam back to the dumpster at my condo.  People who throw trash out of their cars onto the street with no regard or respect for the environment or their fellow human beings are selfish and … well, I’m too angry to continue.  But the street looks much nicer.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  What rubbish and what offal (Julius Caesar). I’m not sure what Pops has against litter.  I have litter.  He cleans my litter box every day so nothing ever smells bad.  I like my litter.  Does that make me a litter-bug?  I’m so confused.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and not littering.  I know none of you would do such a thing.  Are you calm today?  Are you relaxed?  You had better start practicing, because the world has ceased to work and you are going to have to wait for everything.  So stock up on Mellow Pills and leave early because everywhere is understaffed, undertrained and critically stressed.  At the grocery store I went to the self-checkout.  I asked the attendant if the computer could deal with the $5 coupon I had received for getting my flu shot.  He told me no, so I went to the regular checkers.  Excuse me – checker, in the singular.  There was only one.  I waited 20 minutes.

 

That evening, my wife and a friend went to an afternoon movie.  Something about Tammy Faye Somebody, so my friend and I, the husbands, went to meet them, the wives, at a restaurant after the flick.  We got there early and I asked for a table-for-four.  There were half a dozen empty tables.  Sorry, they were short of staff, but as soon as they had an available server, they would seat us.  I patiently and politely replied, “Look, we will be happy to sit at a table with no water and no menus and wait patiently for a server, but I don’t want to just stand around.”  The manager refused.  I continued, “Your other option is to wait for Scylla and Charybdis to get out of the movie and begin to craft an additional exit passage for your body.”  I must have been persuasive, because we were immediately seated.

 

I think some of the problem is that many potential workers are happy just getting unemployment.

 

Each worker that I try to keep

Says twenty per hour’s too cheap

“I don’t need to work,”

One said with a smirk.

“Uncle Sam pays me thirty to sleep.”

 

Weekly Word:  Scylla and Charybdis, in Greek mythology, are two immortal and irresistible monsters who beset the narrow waters traversed by Odysseus.  Caught between Scylla and Charybdis is like being trapped between a rock and a hard place.  I think I may have made a mistake characterizing Carol and her friend as two horrible sea-monsters.  C’mon, girls, it’s just a metaphor and all in fun.  Oy, am I in trouble!  Let’s change the subject.

 

Did you know that Columbus Day is next Monday?  Yes, despite all the anti-White, anti-European tumult of the past few years, old Chris still has a federal holiday.  You know, of course, that his name wasn’t really Christopher Columbus.  His real name was Chiam Cohen, but Chiam was a little nervous about Ferdinand and Isabella.  King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Queen Isabella I of Castile, were the Spanish royalty who had just inaugurated the Spanish Inquisition in 1478 and were busy burning all the Jewish yarmulkes in Spain, not to mention the Jews who were standing under them.  Well, Chaim thought it would be prudent to change his name to something more Catholic, like Christopher.  We know Columbus was Jewish because he set out to find India and missed it by 9,000 miles.  I can relate.

 

The traditional date for Columbus Day is October 12^th, the date of his landing in the New World, the Final Frontier.  On October 12, 2021, next Tuesday, 529 years later, we will remember another Final Frontier.  Next Tuesday, Jeff Bezos’ Blue Origin will launch the New Shepard NS-18 rocket into space with a very special passenger:  Ninety-year-old William Shatner, Captain James Tiberius Kirk.  I think it’s fantastic that Captain Kirk is going to space.  Space, the final frontier, where no old coot has gone before.  In addition to Captain Kirk, they’re sending a proctologist to examine Uranus.

 

We went apple picking this week, seven adults in two cars.  I remember back in the early 1980s when we had three young daughters and there we were, going apple picking in a station wagon with six adults plus ten children stuffed in the back.  I bet you did the same thing.  Were we crazy back then?  Were we stupid?  It seemed like everybody had a great time.  Now we have seat belts, air bags, rear-view cameras, anti-lock brakes and on and on.  Progress!  I guess that’s what you call it.  Somehow, I’d rather see my kids riding ten in the back with no seatbelts than being on Twitter or Instagram.

 

Interesting sports trivia:  In what sport is it illegal to play left-handed?

 

This week, I had breakfast with a friend of mine, just the two of us guys.  I guess you would call that a man-date.  We both wore masks, so it was a Masked Man-Date.  Whenever I ask my grandsons if they were with their boyfriends, they giggle.  To their generation, if a boy has a boyfriend or a girl has a girlfriend, it means they’re gay.  I feel so abandoned.  What has happened to my world, my country, my language.  A boy can’t have a boyfriend anymore?

 

Well, I have to go.  Scylla just came home.  Stay well, don’t litter and count your blessings.  And the sport in which it is illegal to play left-handed is polo.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com