Blog #281                                                   July 28, 2020

 

A few weeks ago, I shared with you some stories about my nutty brother and psychotic sister.  Some of you thought the stories were so bizarre that they couldn’t be true.  Bizarre?  Those stories about my sister burning a dead bird on the ping-pong table and my brother carving his frozen Coke into seven portions – those were only the mildest of stories about them.  I didn’t even mention that my sister, when she was 40, married a 90-year-old farmer, sold the farm and bought a nice house in a suburban subdivision for her, the farmer and the cow.  The cow stayed in the basement, filling it up with cow poop until it died.  After the farmer also died and my sister abandoned the house, the stench of the dead cow and its accumulated excrement caused the city to condemn the property and tear it down.  Or the time two police officers visited my brother’s house to investigate reports that he had a dead woman sitting in a chair in the living room looking out the window.  Insanity didn’t run in my family -- it galloped!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and not depressed.  I hope you are never depressed, but I know better.  We all have our periods of depression.  Health, money, politics, a dozen other things.  They say the signs of depression are losing appetite or sleeping too much.  I’ve had some depression to deal with, and I’ll tell you this: depression isn’t sleeping too late.  Depression is being told you have a week to live the day after you paid $900 apiece for two tickets to Hamilton, and you know your widow will take some other guy.  Depression isn’t losing weight.  Depression is losing your job and having the employment office tell you the only position for which you are qualified is to manage the Joe Biden Re-Election Campaign.  And happiness is maybe making you smile a little on a depressing Thursday.

 

But it's hard to be happy when you’re hot.  Last week it hit 105^o in St. Louis.  And those weren’t Canadian degrees where you have to divide by nine and subtract your shoe-size.  Those were 105 Degrees American.  It’s so hot out there, one of my daughter’s chickens laid an omelet.  It’s so hot I saw a dog chasing a cat and both were walking.

 

Message from Shakespeare: Fear no more the heat o’ the sun (Cymbeline).  Why is it always the dog chasing the cat?  Most cats I know would rip a dog’s face off just for fun.  A dog may be able to outrun me because I only have three legs, but it sure isn’t going to chase me.  Grrrr!

 

It’s so hot, Adam and Eve traded their fig leaves for ice cubes.  If you have read even a small sample of these blogs, you know that I talk about my wife a lot and that I sometimes pick on her.  Making fun of your wife is as old as Adam and Eve.

 

Hey, God, it’s Adam.  This woman thing you made is always nagging at me about some damned apples.  Didn’t You tell me I was on an apple-free diet?  And now she wants clothes!  And she wants to know on what day You’re going to create Netflix.  Seriously, God? What were You thinking? You could have just created three other guys and a golf course.

 

I just got the mail.  There were two pieces.  The first was the results of my latest blood test.  My cholesterol was absolutely perfect.  The second was a Victoria’s Secret catalog.  I liked that too.

 

My lab reports had me elated

Then Victoria showed up X-rated

It’s so good to know

That my lipids are low

And everything else elevated.

 

Slap me the next time you see me.

 

“Hi, God, it’s Adam again.  I don’t know what to say, God.  I told you what a horrible mistake it was to create woman, but in the past week or so I’ve gotten used to her a little.  I mean she’s annoying and a real pain in the rib, but she’s taken up gardening and I’ve learned how to hunt and we pretty much stay out of each other’s way.  But now she’s gotten persnickety and wants a new cold shoulder fig-leaf outfit.  Something called Figtoria’s Secret.  And she wants a nicer donkey – something German.

 

Weekly Word:  Someone who is persnickety is fussy and places too much emphasis on trivial things. 

 

“Hey, God.  It’s Adam again.  That woman you made just gathered some fruit and wants me to ask if You have a round table.  There’s only two of us on the whole planet and she thinks she needs a reservation!  Oh, and she wants it not too near the serpent.  Jesus Christ!  Oh, You like that, God?  That Jesus Christ thing?  I just made it up.  You like it so much that you’re going to name Your Son that?  Catchy.”

 

Ok, it’s about time for me to get hit by lightning.  Yom Kippur cannot come too soon.  Actually, there was another piece of mail I didn’t tell you about.  It was addressed to Resident.  Here’s what it said, word for word, no joke: Dear Jesus, we pray that you will bless someone in this home spiritually, physically and financially.

         

Do they think Jesus lives here?  Who knows?  I looked everywhere.  I even looked in the bathtub.  He could be taking a walk.  I’ve heard of Dear John letters and Dear Santa and Dear Abby, but Dear Jesus?  I should be careful what I write about Jesus.  He could sneak out of wherever He’s hiding and read it.  And my luck – I’d be the first person He doesn’t forgive.

 

Well, you’ll forgive me, won’t you, if I apologize for anything I’ve said in the last 281 weeks that has shocked, insulted, scandalized or disappointed you?  I’ve been married fifty-five years, so I’m good at apologies, but come to think of it, I retract the apology.  I am who I am and you get what you get.  I’m not apologizing to anyone.  Except Carol.  So come back next week and be shocked and scandalized some more. I know you love it.  So count your blessings, stay well and be careful of the heat.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Adam                                      Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com