Blog #264                                March 31, 2022

 

I am reading a book about the United States Merchant Marine.  In it, I learned that the phrase used to describe the captain of a Merchant Marine vessel is the “undisputed master of any gross tons upon oceans”.  I, in my own home, am the undisputed master of precisely nothing.  Last week I dressed up to go out for dinner with friends.  Nice shirt, sweater, slacks, two shoes that matched.  I presented my sartorially splendid self to my wife who instantaneously forbade me to leave the house

 

What?  Forbidden? What kind of pusillanimous worm does she think I am?  I’m a man! I can do what I want and no woman is going to push me around.

 

Not one of the above thoughts actually entered my head.  I just said, “Yes, Dear” and marched my 54-year-married and highly trained rear-end back to my alcove that my wife lovingly calls “your closet” to change every piece of my wardrobe.  But I still think I can do whatever I want any time I want.  Can’t I, Honey?

 

Pusillanimous is a good Weekly Word.  It means showing a lack of courage or determination.  Well, she does seem to get her way more than I do.  Like watching the Academy Awards.  I refused but she insisted.  The first thing that attracted my attention was a Red-Carpet interview.  The interviewer was a gorgeous, curvaceous, sexy, dark-skinned beauty in a low cut, revealing bombshell of a gown.  His name was Laverne.  Or maybe her name was Laverne.  I’m not sure.  How am I supposed to know?  Do I need a program?  I have no intention of being judgmental here.  I mention it merely to reveal how obsolete my generation has become.  In fact, I’m beginning to feel as obsolete and useless as Will Smith’s Anger Management Coach.  I hear Will has signed to do a new autobiographical movie called The Day My Career Stood Still.  I also heard that after the Academy Award show, Chris Rock hired a bodyguard to protect him.  The bodyguard’s name was Laverne.

 

Seriously, the chasm between the social milieu of my grandchildren’s world and that of my own is so immense that the only understanding we can come to is that I misunderstand them as much as they misunderstand me.  But I know that they will love me forever, as I limp and gray and shrink toward whatever Eternity has in store.  All I can hope for is that Eternity does not include The View. 

 

And speaking of shrinking, how tall are you?  No, no, don’t lie to me.  And don’t bring out your driver’s license either.  You lied on that too.  Admit it, you’re shorter than you were when you were nineteen.  Every time you go for a physical, they measure your height.  For two months before your appointment, you let your hair grow longer so you have an extra cushion of fluff on your head.  You wear the thickest socks you can find.  Then you stretch and lift your heels – and still you’re half an inch shorter than the last time.  It’s inevitable.  Get over it.  You didn’t want to go on that roller-coaster ride anyway -- you know, the one where you have to be taller than Minnie Mouse?  Just start memorizing the words to Follow the Yellow Brick Road and live with it.

 

When Zach, my oldest grandson, was ten and grew out of his clothes, they put the clothes aside for my next-oldest, Tyler, who was six.  When he was ten, they passed down to his brother Austin who was six, then to Parker, my youngest grandson.  When he is ten and grows out of those same trustworthy clothes, they will come to me.  By that time, I’ll be three-foot-seven and wearing Garanimals.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying warm.  We are more than a week into Spring, yet here in St. Louis it’s still behaving like Winter.  St. Louis is always late in getting the news.  Hell, most of Missouri still thinks Trump won the last election.  I’m sure the existence of Spring will reach us by June or July.

 

I’m over my infection from last week.  Thank you for your kind wishes.  It seems that, not even counting Covid, there is an endless list of infectious diseases lurking out there waiting to invade our bodies and against which we must ever be vigilant.  There’s Lyme Disease.  Did you know there is a very virulent strain of Lyme Disease in Southern Florida?  They call it Key Lyme Disease.  Then there’s West Nile Virus and East Nile Virus.  There’s St. Louis Encephalitis (that’s a real thing).  There’s African Sleeping Sickness. Yellow Fever, Blue Fever, Black Fever and Burnt Siena Fever.  What can I do?  How do I avoid them all?  Where can I hide?

 

If I could just go incognito

In a cabin just south of Toledo

I’d avoid tics and fleas

Or the Mad Cow Disease

Or a bite from a West Nile Mosquito.

 

I played bridge this week at the house of a friend who was dog-sitting for a three-legged grand-dog.  Wow, a three-legged dog!  I have a three-legged cat.  Maybe they should get together.  They could learn to dance.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  You have dancing shoes with nimble soles (Merchant of Venice).  There he goes again.  Now he’s making fun of handicapped pets.  And what makes him think a creature who’s missing a leg can’t dance.  We can do the Cha or the Can or even the One-Step.  Purr.

 

Well, look at this.  Toymakers have sprung into action to take advantage of the Academy Awards scandal.  There is already a Will Smith Doll.  You set it on the dinner table and, if your kid doesn’t eat his Brussels sprouts, the doll walks over and slaps the kid in the face.  It’s part of the new Hasbro Has hbeen line which includes a doll that looks like Bill Cosby and is named Mr. Pervert Head and one that looks like Jesse Smollett called My Little Phony.

 

Ok, enough glorious entertainment for one Thursday.  This is going to be my last blog.  April Fools!  Gotcha!  No, you can’t get rid of me that fast.  I’ll be around for the foreseeable future, so stay well, count your blessings and pray for the people of Ukraine.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog # 263                               March 24, 2022

 

As we start our sixth year together at Limerick Oyster, I’m convinced that what makes it work for us is that I am totally open and unafraid to share with you my most personal moments, my strongest opinions, my foibles and frailties, my peculiarities and peccadilloes.  And I’m not stopping now!  This week I had a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI).  I was convinced of the diagnosis by the discomfort and the blood.  Yes, I can hear many of you right now saying: “OMG, your UTI is really TMI,” and I suppose you’re right, but off I go anyway.

 

I wanted to tell my wife about my discomfort so I could get a little sympathy, but I knew that wouldn’t work.  I remembered what happened 13 years ago when I had my bypass surgery in North Carolina.  When it was over, I heard her talking to a friend on the phone.  “Oh my God,” said the friend.  “Michael had quadruple bypass surgery?  How horrible.”  “You think that was horrible?” said Carol.  “I had to drive back to my daughter’s house in the dark at 5:00 am.  And it was sleeting and it took me ten minutes to defrost the windshield!  Now that was horrible!  You think having your chest cut open with a bone-saw is bad?  You think having your ribs spread apart by a huge vise is disgusting?  The cafeteria’s chicken-salad had sweet-pickle in it!  Now that’s disgusting!  And I didn’t like the nurse’s outfit.”   

 

Instead of telling her, I immediately called the office of Dr. Doctor and spoke with a PA, or an RN or an NP or whatever her abbreviation was.  I told her what I had and what antibiotic I wanted prescribed.

 

You see, I had a UTI ten years ago and the antibiotic prescribed then worked wonderfully.  I know that doctors don’t usually allow their patients to make their own diagnoses or prescribe their own treatments, but I must have been convincing, because an hour later I had the prescription filled.  No office visit, no tests, no questions.  And it worked!  My problem has disappeared.  There are three possibilities:

 

1.     The antibiotics I prescribed for myself did the trick.  What a genius I am.

2.     I never had a UTI to begin with and it was only a broken-blood vessel and I should never have presumed to diagnose myself in the first place.  What an idiot I am.

3.     I’ve forgotten the third thing.

 

It should be a general rule,

When you’ve not been to Medical School,

If you’ve got certain ills

And prescribe your own pills,

Then you’re probably just an old fool.

 

Guilty!

 

I got a text from my oldest grandson.  He’s 20 and at college.  The text was to thank me for the Care Package full of snacks I sent him.  It had been sitting in the Duke Student Mail Room for almost three weeks.  Young people get all their communications on their phones, and physical mail is just a nuisance.  For my generation, getting the mail has always been a routine, yet very important, part of the day.  To many, it is almost a holy pilgrimage to trek to the mailbox or Post Office each day without fail to see what the letter carrier has brought.  (I almost said Mailman which, of course, would have been horrible.  After all, it could have been a Fe-Mail Man.) Today, there were only two items, an invitation to an Open House at the new Senior Lifestyle Community down the street and an AARP Magazine.  Is that sad?  To find nothing but reminders of how old you are?  The American magazine with the largest subscription is AARP The Magazine.  In second place is AARP Bulletin.  They each have about 23 million readers.  It seems that AARP has the Old People market firmly under control, so now they’re working on a series of magazines for Dead People: Good Hearsekeeping, Corpse Illustrated, Better Plots and Gardens.  I know, I’m warped.

 

But you love me anyway, don’t you?  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and warming up with the nice weather now that Spring has arrived.  Have you changed your calendar page?  Do you still have paper calendars with pictures of fuzzy little cats or waterfalls or grandchildren?  Or do you just do all your planning on your smart phone?  If I know my audience, I’m betting on the fuzzy cats. 

 

How’s your hearing?  What?  HOW’S YOUR HEARING!  Yes, as we get older, as we reach the age where Happy Hour is a nap, some of us are beginning to turn up the TV volume and learning to read lips.  One of my friends just got a new hearing aid.  “I just bought a new hearing aid,” he told me.  “It cost me four thousand dollars, but it's state of the art. Perfect!”  “Really,” I replied. “What kind is it?” “Twelve thirty,” he replied.  Bad-a-boom!

 

We are now into the fourth week of the war in Ukraine.  What the Russian forces are doing to the Ukrainian people is sadistic and tragic.  Is there no way to make it stop?  Apparently not.  It is frustrating and heart-wrenching and blood curdling and a whole bunch of other words you’ve heard me use in these prolix blogs.  There’s one – prolix, which means tediously prolonged and wordy (Weekly Word).  Guilty again.

 

Businesses of the world are beginning to sever all connections with Russia, from Banks to McDonald’s, and I strongly approve.  I am proud of the world.  We should continue to arm Ukraine with missiles and ammunition and supplies and, yes, airplanes.  There I go again, looking for trouble or, as Don Quixote calls it, “looking for a three-legged cat.”  And speaking of trouble, I have a feeling who we’re going to hear from next.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Double, double toil and trouble (Macbeth).  Pops is reading this big book about a crazy old Spanish man who goes around saying stupid things and getting into trouble with everything he does.  Sounds like Pops, doesn’t it?  Don’t worry, I’ll bite him if he goes too crazy.  Purr.

 

Now it’s time to end this prolix adventure into medicine, gerontology and, perhaps, even a little humor.  Please stay well, count your blessings and pray for the people of Ukraine.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

LIMERICK    OYSTER

Blog #262                                March 17, 2022

 

The Ukrainians want airplanes to fight the Russians, but we’re not sending them airplanes, are we?  Poland has a few old MIGs and would gladly get rid of them, but the Poles are reluctant about aggravating the Russians because the Russians have invaded and occupied Poland so many times in the past 500 years.  The Poles want the Americans to take the planes and give them to the Ukrainians, but we’re also afraid of aggravating Russia, so instead of giving Ukraine the weapons they need to defend themselves against slaughter and annihilation, we’ve decided to stop buying Russian products.  Now, each night, as we watch the evening broadcast of live Ukrainians becoming dead Ukrainians, we’ll have to serve beer and popcorn instead of caviar and vodka.  What a sacrifice.  It’s kind of like watching one of your friends getting beaten up by a bully in the school parking lot and telling the bully that if he doesn’t stop you won’t invite him to your birthday party.  Truman Capote said, “The wicked are safe among the blind.”  Are we being blind here?  Give them the friggin’ airplanes so that they can defend themselves.  

 

Another way we’re helping the Ukrainians is by seizing those gargantuan yachts owned by Russian oligarchs.  An oligarch, our Weekly Word is a very rich Russian with a lot of political influence.  Kind of like Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos with fur hats.  President Biden has sent them a warning:  

 

We’re going to go on a mission

To make sure you cannot go fishin’

We’re taking your boats

And whatever else floats

So you won’t have a yacht you can pish in.

 

And we’re justifying the seizure of these huge fishing boats because they are Weapons of Bass Destruction.

 

We barely have time to worry about the Ukrainians because we have to worry about baseball.  Aren’t we all excited that the baseball lockout is over so that all those millionaire players and billionaire owners can raise the ticket prices and the beer prices and the parking and the popcorn and make going to a baseball game for a family of four as expensive as a Stinger missile?

 

I like soccer and am looking forward to the new Major League Soccer team coming to St. Louis in 2023.  The reason that soccer isn’t more popular here is that it is so hard to bet on.  In half of the games, nobody wins, and the over-under is always 1.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all my Limerick Leprechauns out there.  Did you remember to change your clocks?  I admit I forgot.  At my age, I’m much better at falling back than springing forward.  This week marks five years since the first Limerick Oyster was published on March 16, 2017.  Happy Anniversary to me and to those of you who have put up with me for five years.  Thank you.  I hope you are feeling well today.

 

You may have put up with me for five years, but Carol and I have been together for almost 55 years.  Fredrik Backman said, “It’s hard enough for two people to agree what TV program to watch, let alone fashion an entire life together.”  It is a measure of a long and happy marriage that my wife can communicate with me in so many different ways.  A look, a smile, private and intimate messages.  Like leaving an empty toilet-paper roller on the sink to tell me I should put more rolls in the cabinet.  Or telling me when I leave that if I walk out of the house wearing that shirt, I should not consider coming back.  She’s so subtle.

 

I dutifully changed my shirt and we went out for dinner with friends.  The other gentleman at the table looked at my shirt and said he thought he had the same shirt.  Was it a Tom Ford?  No, I said.  A Ralph Lauren?  No.  Luigi Borrelli?  No, I said, my shirts don’t have two names.  Only one name – Chaps.  I’ve told you before that I can predict what people will say when they look at old pictures of themselves.  The women always say, “Oh my God, look at my hair!”  And the men say, “I still have that shirt.”   And that’s all I have to say about shirts.

 

Yearly physical exam today.  Eyes look good.  Heart is fine.  Joints working.  Everything else is normal.  Got a rabies shot.  Oh, I guess I didn’t mention it was Shakespeare’s check-up.  Yesterday was his 2^nd anniversary at our house.  Such a good boy! 

 

Message from Shakespeare:   O my gentle master! O my sweet master! (As You Like It).  I call him my Master just to make him think he’s the boss.  I learned that from Carol.  In truth, the only thing he’s master of is scooping my litter.  But he did take me in two years ago and give me a wonderful home.  I guess he deserves a thank-you.  I’ll think about it.  Purr.

 

We are currently in the period of Lent, which began on Ash Wednesday and ends on Easter.  Last week, I saw a sign on a Catholic Church offering drive-up services for people who were in a hurry or trying to avoid personal contact.  Absolutely true!  That’s right, you could drive up to a priest in the parking lot, roll down your window and get ashes on your forehead and a blessing. What a clever idea: Drive through services! 

 

Get your divinity in your Infinity.

We’ll get you to heaven in your Porsche 9-11.

Bring in your Hyundai on next Easter Sunday.

Did you steal that car? Yes? Drive up and confess!

 

Now that’s what I call a Service station.  I forget the name of the church.  I think it was Our Lady of the Catalytic Converter.  The Catholic Church definitely needs my services (pun intended) to help with their messaging.  Today I passed a cemetery with a sign in front that read: St John’s Cemetery – Non- Sectarian.  Non-sectarian?  St. Johns?  Why don’t they just name it St. Johns Holy Catholic and Papal Cemetery of Jesus Christ, Our Lord – Non-Sectarian? 

 

I suppose I have to stop now.  I wouldn’t want you to laugh too much or cry too hard.  I’ll have more next week.  Be there!  Stay well, count your blessings and pray for Ukraine.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #261                                          March 10, 2022

 

I want to talk about this buying oil from Russia thing.  Putin is a monster; we hate him and want to hurt his economy and make him stop.  But the United States continues to buy 600,000 barrels of oil from Russia every day.  At $100 a barrel, that’s $60 million a day.  (Sorry for the math.)  STOP BUYING OIL FROM THIS CRIMINAL.  And don’t tell me oil is fungible and a bunch of other crap.  Fungible is a Weekly Word you need to understand.  It means able to be replaced by another identical item; mutually interchangeable.  So, these so-called smart people say, if we don’t buy it, somebody else will because nobody knows where their oil is coming from.  And oil is fungible.  Well, I’m just a poor, ignorant poet, but FUNGIBLE MY BIG FAT BARREL OF CRUDE!  If nobody buys Putin’s oil, he can’t ship it anywhere or get paid for it.  If oil were fungible, then why is there a statistic about how much we are importing from Russia?  If we stop buying Russian oil, and maybe Europe stops and Japan stops, then Russia will either go bankrupt or lower its prices to attract buyers.  Either way, it would be bad for Putin.  And that’s what we want.  MAKE IT BAD FOR PUTIN.  STOP BUYING HIS OIL.

 

Since I wrote the above rant, President Biden has cancelled purchases from Russia.  Good for him.  He listened to me.  And, immediately thereafter, we brought out the big gun, the weapon that will force an end to this war. That’s right, McDonald’s has closed its stores in Russia. 

 

These sanctions will not be the keys

To bring Vladimir to his knees

So listen up, Putin,

If you don’t stop shootin’

There’s no Quarter Pounder with Cheese.

 

That should end this war by lunch.

 

With Covid waning and the weather warming, we are all becoming more inclined to go out to restaurants and movies and even events like the Symphony.  St. Louis has a wonderful symphony orchestra and my wife likes to go.  Sometimes, she goes with her girlfriends.  You know what I mean by the word girlfriends.  But if I asked my granddaughter if she went to a concert with a girlfriend, she’d say she went with a friend who is a girl.  Girlfriend, to her, connotes a homosexual relationship.  I find that connotation strange, but then I find anything younger than Lawrence Welk strange.

 

Back to the symphony.  My wife went with a group of girls who were friends.  The seats were close, but too far to the left and all they could see were the violins, so they moved closer to the woodwinds and . . . well, I never thought the symphony was a visual experience.  It’s the music I go for, not the scenery.  Classical is not actually my favorite kind of music, but I can handle (Handel) most of it.  I’m really not a big fan of most art (Mozart), so when I go, I just close my eyes, lean back (Bach) and relax.  But to Carol and her friends, the visual is everything.  It thrills them more than shopping (Chopin).  I’m pretty sure it’s a sexual thing.  They just love the pipe organ!  And they all swoon over the piano player, which, I must admit, makes me a bit jealous – must be a case of pianist envy.

 

Howdy, Y’all and welcome back.  That’s a little Southern lingo because so many of my friends are still south for the winter.  Are you still down there in Scottsdale or Naples or Palm Springs?  Well, wherever y’all are hidin’ (Hayden), I’ll find you and try to make you laugh.  I hope you’re feeling well, staying toasty and keeping busy (Bizet).

 

I had to call an insurance company yesterday, so I called the 1-800 number.  I was instructed to “press one” if I wanted to proceed in English.  I guess if I hadn’t done that, it would have instructed me, in Spanish, to press dos.  Then press 3 for Mandarin, 4 for Vietnamese and subsequently to Korean, Hindu, Arabic, Swahili and a list (Liszt) of eighty other languages until it gets to Cherokee where it tells you, in Cherokee, that if you hadn’t let all those white sons o’ bitches immigrate in the first place, they could have done the whole message in Cherokee from the beginning.  Poor Indians!  That was the first Amnesty – let those white folks land here; there are only a few of them.  They work hard and they’re good for the economy.  Press 89 for Cherokee.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I am the best of them that speak this speech (The Tempest).  All cats speak the same language.  I can understand Siamese cats and Persian cats and Himalayan cats.  I’d like to be a Himalayan cat because him a-layin’ on the couch all day.  Sorry.  Cat jokes are not very funny.  Purr.

 

I love my cat, of course.  He has a cat tree and lots of toys.  I leave a window open on the porch so he can watch and listen to the birds.  But he also likes fish.  Often, I put on YouTube videos of fish television.  Shakespeare’s favorite shows are Dancing with the Starfish -- Eel of Fortune -- and Orange Roughy is the New Black Roughy.  Or I just put on South Pacific.  His favorite song is Salmon Chanted Evening.

 

We’ve had a lot of fun today with little puns and stories, but there is something tragic and very serious in our minds and our hearts.  The pictures from Ukraine are heart breaking.  The Ukrainians look like us.  They dress like us.  They live in homes and apartments and have cell phones and little children with teddy bears.  We wonder how this has happened to them.  We don’t understand what kind of monsters could inflict such a tragedy. 

 

Will Rogers, humorist and social commentator, said, “There has been war since the beginning of time and we are no smarter than the people that have gone before us.”  The author Richard Russo said “The worst in man is commonplace.  The best is rare.”  The Ukrainian people are showing us the best.  My grandmother and grandfather came from Odessa.

 

There are many fine charities helping the people of Ukraine.  My synagogue recommended HIAS.org, if you are so inclined.  Stay well, y’all.  Count your blessings over and over.  We’ll be together next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #260                                          March 3, 2022

 

As you probably know by now, I have a defibrillator-pacemaker which, in addition to dispensing an electric shock that could fry chicken, has an internal warning signal that, if something should be amiss with my heart, sounds like a Nazi police siren emanating from my chest.   It is my medical opinion that a loud siren noise unexpectedly bursting from your chest would give most people a heart attack, but what do I know?  They test mine every once in a while in the doctor’s office, and, believe me, it is very spooky to hear that Gestapo sound coming from your own chest.  I would rather have music; even Nazi music would be better.  

 

Oh no.  I knew this was coming! Now he is going to come up with some stupid, juvenile list of Nazi songs that he made up.  It’s bad enough we have to read his dumb limericks, now we have to suffer through this stupid thing.  Exactly!  Get over it.  Here they are – Nazi songs!

 

Well It’s Bad, Bad Eva Braun -- We’re So Sorry, Uncle Adolph -- Hitler With Your Best Shot, and yes, I have a favorite: Come On Baby Light My Fuhrer.

 

I had lunch with a friend yesterday.  Naturally I got there early and, as I patiently sat, reading my book and sipping a glass of water, a lady (my age I suppose) came in and sat at a nearby table.  She told the waiter, “I’m waiting for one more -- short, balding, glasses.”  Is that how we talk about our loved ones when they’re not around, with some trio of defining characteristics?  Is that how Carol would describe me to a waiter – gray hair, carrying a book, Nazi siren coming from his chest.  When I describe her, it’s always in glorious and adoring superlatives – I’m waiting for a beautiful, dark-haired woman.  I would never say, “I’m waiting for one more – small, walks fast, won’t like the table.”  Anyway, when this lady’s husband came in, I knew him immediately from his wife’s description.  He was short and nondescript and lost and generally husband-looking.  I almost waved to point him to his wife’s table.  But he found her.  We always do.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils (Henry V).  I know how Pops would describe me to a waitress: “I’m waiting for one more – furry, three legs, purrs.  And extremely handsome.”  Meow.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying warm?  I presume that each of you, upon noticing that this is Blog #260, removed your slide rule and calculated that 260 = 52 x 5, concluding that this must be the Fifth Anniversary of Limerick Oyster.  Yay!  Happy Anniversary!  Balloons!  Little party hats!  You were wrong of course.  The first issue Of Lim. Oyster was published on March 16, 2017.  Not March 3^rd.  “But,” I hear you cry, “where did those extra 13 days come from?”  Well, 52 weeks is only 364 days, not 365, so there is an extra day in each of those five years plus an additional day because 2020 was a Leap Year, which makes six days, plus an extra seven days because Blog #2 was only one week later that #1, not two weeks.  And that is why, Friends and Neighbors, everyone hates math!

 

Most people who are bad at math are either divorced and hate their X or depressed and can’t figure out Y.  Just relax, take a deep breath and do your WORDLE.  Feel better now?  I promise there will be no more math today.   Two hundred sixty is, however, an impressive number.  Did you realize that if you lined up all 260 limericks end to end -- you’d be bored for quite some time?

 

We spend a lot of time watching the news about Ukraine.  It is stunningly depressing to think that six weeks ago, all these families we see leaving the country were living a normal life, trying to make money, trying to be good at what they do, planning for the future – then boom!  It’s all gone.  They’re refugees.  No home, no money, no possessions, fleeing the only country they’ve ever known for some strange place, any strange place where their children don’t have to sleep in a bomb shelter.  It’s horrible, and I’d like to give you an uplifting and optimistic quote, so I found this one attributed to Martin Luther, the 16^th Century German reformist (not Martin Luther King): “If I knew the world were to end tomorrow, I would still plant my apple tree.”  Let’s all pray for Ukraine and for peace.

 

While watching the news, I saw commercials for Cosentyx, Breztri, Preservision, Cologuard, Ozempic, Prevagen and Jublia, and I cannot decide which will come first:  Putin’s conquest of Ukraine or the drug companies having all the money in the world.  All the drug ads have perfectly healthy people running around the park sniffing flowers and playing with children in a perfidious attempt to distract you from hearing that the side effects could kill a herd of elephants.

 

I don’t remember all kinds of drugs being advertised when I was growing up.  There was Bayer Aspirin and Alka-Seltzer (Plop Plop Fizz Fizz) and Serutan (Natures spelled backwards).  Then, in 1998, there was Viagra, the little blue pill for old men whose snake wasn’t working.  Snake?  Well, of course!  Isn’t that why they call it Reptile Dysfunction?

 

We start out with youthful virility

Then age comes to teach us humility

But now we can shout

Viagra’s come out

And put back the “sin” in senility.

 

The Weekly Word is perfidious, which means deceitful and untrustworthy, like Vladimir Putin.

 

This past Tuesday was Fat Tuesday which, when translated into French, becomes Mardi Gras.  The Catholics have all these interesting names for their days:  Fat Tuesday, Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday, Good Friday.  I think we old people should have a Senior Weekend celebration and name each of the days:  Forgetful Friday, Slow-Driving Saturday and Senile Sunday.  I’ll be there – if I remember.  And you’d better remember to be back here next week for more of whatever this is.  Until then, stay well and count your blessings.  Then pray for Ukraine and count your blessings again.  And plant that apple tree.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com