Blog #244                                         November 11, 2021

 

I’m not working at the Zoo during cold weather, and the jail and English classes where I used to volunteer still don’t want us to come back, but I keep busy playing bridge and reading and writing to you.  How do you do it?  Every week another blog?  I get that question all the time.  You know, writing the blog is a lot like cooking.  You start with a large cup of humor, add a freshly-picked weekly word, a plump limerick, throw in a saucy message from Shakespeare and stir it all up.  Add a little salt, maybe even something hot and spicy.  And there you have it – simple as apple pie.  Maybe it makes you smile.  Maybe it upsets your stomach.  Let’s see what we can cook up today.

 

I want to tell you about an incident I had at a retail outlet of a major national chain.  I won’t mention the name, because that wouldn’t be fair, but it starts with BEST and ends with BUY.  Last May, we bought a new TV.  It was one of those huge beasts that they measure not in inches, but in yards, and my wife just had to have it so she could count the pores on Hoda Kotb’s face.  Hoda seems to be on at least 23 hours every day.  Anyway, Carol’s happy now.  She has two smart TVs and one dumb husband.

 

When we bought the thing, the salesman told us that, if we signed up for the chain’s eponymous Visa card and charged the TV on that, we would get a credit of 10% of the price to be used on our next purchase.  Sounded good, so we did.  Today we went back to the un-named chain to make another purchase.  We found what we wanted, made the selection, scheduled the installation and told them to apply the 10% credit from the TV.  Sorry, we were told, it had expired after 60 days.  What?  Nobody had ever mentioned an expiration to me.  Never.  I was unhappy.  I was incensed.  I was as furious as a Southwest Airlines passenger the day they decided that flying was too complicated.  I asked for the manager, a snotty little bastard who was younger than my belt, and angrily recited all the details.  He looked at me like I was Rain Man, said there was nothing he could do, and arrogantly suggested I call the 1-800 number.  I went home, called the number and spoke with four Filipinos.  Can someone please tell me why a person from the Philippines (with three Ps and no F) is called a Filipino (with only one P and an F)? 

 

It seems that, nowadays, every 1-800 number goes directly to the Philippines.  It used to be India, but now it’s the Philippines.  They must work cheaper, but I don’t like it.  First, every Filipino sounds like he or she has his or her head inside a crock pot.  (I hate this his or her crap.)  Second, when they put you on hold, they play Filipino music.  I sincerely apologize to any Filipino readers out there, but your music is crap.  It all sounds like Peewee Herman and Wanda Sykes singing two different songs at the same time while being bitten by cats – in a crock pot.

 

Anyway, after an hour, the fourth Filipino, Sheila, felt my pain and said she would reissue the credit.  We went back to the store where they honored the credit, I think.  We’ll see when the bill arrives, and, although I felt no contrition at all, I told that same supercilious creep that I regretted our little set-to of the day before.  He said, “Oh, I’ve had worse than you.”   Really, I said?  Next time I’ll try harder.

 

Weekly Word:  A supercilious person is one who behaves as though he or she thinks he or she is superior to you.  Please, can I stop with the he-or-she and just say he?  Or she?

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re staying well and warm.  Did you remember to change your clocks?  Fall back?  Now we’re on Central Standard Time (CST).  The problem is that, instead of waking us up at 6:45, Shakespeare now wakes us up at 5:45. 

 

The person who cleans our condo was not available, so Carol and I cleaned.  She did the dusting and the countertops and polished every surface in sight while listening to Broadway music, reading a book, playing bridge on line and watching Hoda Kotb.  I was in charge of vacuuming.  In 1997, when I was released from the hospital after my heart attack, I asked Dr. Heart what restrictions I had.  He said there were three:

 

·        No vacuuming

·        No playing craps

·        No sex with an unfamiliar partner

 

Well, this week I vacuumed.  I’m thinking about the other two.  Is a goat an unfamiliar partner?  See, there’s that little pinch of something hot and spicy.

 

Vacuuming is really hard.  It’s not the effort of pushing and pulling.  It’s the stupid cord that I keep stepping on or pulling out of the wall or tripping over.  Then you have to find another outlet in the next room and wind the cord around your wrist so you won’t trip over it and – whoops, I just pulled it out again.  Maybe I could teach Shakey to do it.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Out damned spot! (Macbeth).  What is Pops talking about?  Me vacuuming?  I think that machine sucked out some of his brains by mistake.  And why does he have to change his clocks?  There’s only one time – Central Animal Time (CAT).  Purr.

 

And speaking about damned spots, we all get spots as we age.  Mirrors don’t lie.  Mine chuckles!  To deal with my skin, I keep an arsenal of salves, balms, lotions, potions, unguents, ointments and elixirs that I rub, apply and variously douse upon the affected parts of my body.

 

There’s unguents and gels and a geyser

Of Miracle Skin Moisturizer

I’ve got me a salve

For each rough spot I have

And a big Thank You Greeting from Pfizer.

 

I brought in some Chinese food this week.  Inside my fortune cookie was the following: YOU WILL HAVE AN OPPORTUNITY TO SHINE THIS WEEK.   I hope this was it.  If not, there’s always next week.  Gotta go now.  Where’s that damned goat?  Oh, there she is.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com