Blog #290                                September 29,2022

 

I never eat breakfast.  I’ll pause now so you can all express the accepted knowledge that breakfast is the most important meal.  Are you finished?  Good.  I like breakfast food – eggs, bacon, hash browns, pancakes, waffles.  I love it all, just not in the morning.  I’m not hungry in the morning.  But on Sunday, Carol makes me pancakes for lunch.  She makes great pancakes and it is always a treat.

 

Can you picture a mother and a little boy?  The mother asks, “Want me to make some pancakes, Boy?”  The son answers, “Course I do.  Ain’tcha my Ma?”

Ain’tcha my Ma.  Say it fast three times and it becomes Aunt Jemima.  My brain is spectacularly bizarre, isn’t it?

 

I remember one morning on Bald Head Island with the entire family, sixteen of us.  Somehow, after all eight grandchildren had eaten breakfast, Carol and I were alone in the kitchen.  I asked her to make me pancakes.  A quiet meal of delicious pancakes all by myself!  I was electric with anticipation.  But no sooner had those hot steamy flapjacks flapped upon my plate than the room began to shake, and a stampede of little urchins invaded the kitchen screaming for pancakes.  “I want the biggest!”  “I want the one on the bottom!”  “Where’s the syrup?”  “Move that old man out of the way.”  I got none of the first stack.  I guess they all figured if they had my genes, they could have my pancakes.  They inhaled the second stack, annihilated the third stack, devoured the fourth stack.  Carol was moving faster than the third zebra trying to get on the Ark.  Then, abruptly, my little vultures, sated and happy, left me like a used and discarded call girl.  All they left was one, lonely, cold, torn pancake.  And the syrup bottle was gone.  I think they ate it.  I love being a grandfather!

 

This blog finds us between the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and if you celebrate those holidays, I wish you a happy and healthy New Year.  On the Jewish calendar, the year is 5783.  That’s about how old I feel.  As for all you Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, Taoists, Confucians, Jains, Druze, Shintoists, Zoroastrians, Baha’is, agnostics and atheists out there – shalom and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.

 

An atheist, by the way, doesn’t believe in God and an agnostic thinks it’s impossible to know for sure.  And then there’s Mark Twain, who said, “Faith is believing what you know ain’t so.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king (Hamlet).  There must be a God, because He put me and Pops together.  Pops didn’t count my legs; he just looked in my face and smiled.  And then I bit him.  It was love at first bite.  Purr.

 

How about some news?  The chess world is aghast with the scandalous story of an up-and-coming player who cheated by getting moves electronically sent to him by co-conspirators.  The signals caused vibrations in a device the challenger had shoved up his behind.  But he got caught in the end (so to speak). 

 

He was getting instruction, alas,

From a buzzer he shoved up his ass

But his fatal mistake

Was that each move he’d make,

The buzzer would start passing gas.

 

The news is entirely true, and I just could not pass (so to speak) it up.

 

How about a story? You like my stories, and you have nothing else to do.  Your bridge game doesn’t start for hours.  This story is also completely true. We went to a movie, you-know-who and I.  I dropped her at the entrance.  Every morning she crawls, climbs and stomps around the house doing yoga-esque contortions and smiling like Richard Simmons on speed.  Then she hops on the treadmill for multiple miles.  But it is apparently too much of an effort for her to walk from the parking lot to the entrance.  So I dropped her.  Prince Charming! 

 

She bought two tickets, and when I entered, she handed me one and went to the ladies’ room.  I showed the attendant the ticket that said Film A, and was directed to Theater 4.  I went in.  No Carol.  I picked a seat and waited.  No Carol.  I watched the coming trailers, all 827 of them, at which point Carol entered and, in a voice loud enough to be heard in Istanbul, said, “You’re in the wrong theater!”  The patrons began to chuckle mercilessly as I slinked sheepishly out to follow my wife to a different theater.  And how, I hear you snicker, had I wound up in the wrong theater when my ticket clearly said the movie that was playing there?  Well, she asked for Film B, but they printed Film A tickets by mistake.  No big deal; she just went to the theater showing Film B.  EXCEPT SHE FAILED TO TELL HER POOR DUMB HUSBAND.   And now everyone in the County is talking about the ignorant bozo who couldn’t find the right theater and his skinny wife who had to come rescue him.  I think tonight I’ll just wear a sign that says USELESS SLOB.  Best to warn everybody up front.  The movie was copacetic. 

 

I don’t really understand why she didn’t tell me where to go.  She does it all the time.  In fact, she and all her buttinsky ancestors have been telling men where to go, what to say and how to live their lives all throughout history.  For instance,

 

·        No, Chris, don’t pick the first New World you see.  Let’s keep looking.  Maybe we’ll find one on sale.

·        No, Abe, you don’t need to waste time shopping now.  Let’s go see a play.  And wear that tall hat.

·        Forget it, Arthur, see if they have a round table.

·        Adam, put down that candy bar – too much fat.  Have an apple instead.

·        Sorry, Attila, I need more room.  Go conquer Asia; you can keep your clothes there.  Thanks, Hun.

·        What did God offer you, Moses, eight commandments?  Let me talk to him.  I’ll get Him up to ten.

 

The Weekly Word, copacetic, means barely satisfactory.  I hope this blog was better than that.  Happy New Year again, and have a great week.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Useless Slob                                      Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com