Blog #294                                October 27, 2022

 

We are Your humblest and poorest of leasties

Deliver us, Lord, if You might

From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties

And things that go bump in the night.

 

That was a traditional Scottish prayer, as expanded and enhanced by your humble leastie himself, and it reminds us that Halloween is almost upon us.  On the last night of October in 1067, shortly after the Norman conquest of all England, scattered bands of renegade Druids congregated near Stonehenge to sacrifice a small herd of lambs and a somewhat larger herd of Norman prisoners and to declare that henceforward this night shall be known as All Hallows Evening (Hallows E’en) when all the faithful shall call forth demons and witches and all the forces of evil, even unto the Devil himself, to take revenge upon the non-believing Normans and their offspring from generation to generation, which explains why you do not know very many people named Norman. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Something wicked this way comes (Macbeth).  Why, on Halloween, do you humans think cats are nefarious? (Nefarious means wicked or criminal.  Oo, I got to do another Weekly Word.) Cats are kind, loving and harmless creatures.  And if you don’t agree with me, I’ll bite you.  Meowwwwww!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and getting ready for Halloween.  I remember trick-or-treating when I was a kid.  We got popcorn balls and caramel apples and stayed pretty much away from the Druids.  I’m doing okay, except my eye feels about as happy as someone who bet on the Cardinals.  I remember fifty years ago when we would get together with friends and talk about who was pregnant and who was buying a house and who got a promotion.  Now we get together and talk about who’s in the hospital and who’s in the nursing home and who’s in the obituaries.  Pretty sad.  Please don’t get sick and don’t fall and don’t forget my name.

 

I was at Walgreens recently and picked up a box of assorted-sized flesh-colored Band Aids.  When I got home, Carol noticed the bag.  She notices everything.  She knows what I eat, what I wear and what the second half of each of my sentences is going to be.

 

What’s in the bag? She asked.

Oh, I replied, I just needed some . . .

flesh-colored Band-Aids, she said.

How did you . . .

Know?  I just did.  But they’re really not flesh-colored Band-Aids.

But . . .

No they’re not.  Read the box.

 

I did and discovered two things.  First, it did not say “Flesh Colored”.  In today’s world, the term flesh-colored is unacceptable.  What color is flesh-colored anyway?  Perhaps it should be labeled “Flesh of White Americans of European Descent Colored”.  It occurs to me now that white people are not People of Color.

I feel so drained!  But do not be alarmed.  There is a brand called Tru-Colour Adhesive Bandages – Diversity in Healing which are the color of – well, people of color.

 

And second, they weren’t Band-Aids.  They were Walgreen’s Adhesive Bandages.  Carol was right.  She always is.  Just ask her.  But you can understand my mistake.  Band-Aids have been such a familiar commodity in our lives for so many decades that we presume it’s just the name of the commodity itself, not a brand name – like Kleenex, Scotch Tape, Coke, Jell-O or aspirin, all of which are brand names.

 

Last week, I wrote a blog without talking about my wife, and the consensus response was that the blog was boring and I should get back to talking about her.  So, I just did.  Thanks for your helpful input.  Maybe I should change the name to Limerick Wife.

 

And speaking of wifely irritations, Carol and all her friends like to talk about who’s seeing who, what widow is dating what widower and should they fix this one up with that one.  It’s as if they were still in high school and wondering who’s going to ask them to the Prom.  If I survive her, she tells me, I will start receiving casseroles because I can play bridge and drive at night.  Apparently, those are the only two endearing traits which I possess.  I just hate talking about this depressing scenario, but she thinks it’s as much fun as watching The Bachelorette.  She even has my next wife picked out for me.  “She’s perfect.  She can cook and has lots of money.”   As if I would abandon all thoughts of romantic attraction for a Caribbean cruise and a meat loaf!  I have never met this woman she has picked out for me, but my wife feels that since I cannot pick out my own clothes, I shouldn’t be allowed to pick out her replacement.

 

Carol and her friends, of course, have no interest in romance.  They’re too practical.  “Well,” my wife says to me, “If you go first, I want someone who makes me laugh and who likes to travel.”  Slow down, Zsa Zsa, I’m not even coughing.

 

We went to a fancy-schmancy restaurant the other night.  You know, I need to go to Class Class so I can learn how to order wine and what fork to use and how not to bite into a cherry tomato and spray my wife with tomato seeds.  I noticed a menu item called Deconstructed Chicken Pot Pie.  The waiter eagerly explained that deconstructed meant that all the ingredients were on your plate, but they would not be formed together into the expected shape.  He said it was the newest trend.  Ok, I was confused, but I ordered it.

 

We want Deconstructed, they clamor

For fine cuisine, it’s the new glamour

The plate arrived soon

With no fork and no spoon

Just a screwdriver, saw and a hammer.

 

With which I reconstructed my dinner.  It was delicious.  They had a lunch special:  Hammer and Cheese Sandwich with Wrench Fries and a Drill Pickle.

 

Now it’s time to go.  I’ve got work to do, people to see, places to go, fires to put out, dreams to dream, Diet Cokes to drink, lots of people to love and things to pick up on the way home.  Don’t worry, I’ll save enough time to write to you next week.  Until then, stay well, have a Happy Halloween and count your blessings. 

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #293                                October 20, 2022

 

Nobody read my blog last Thursday because you were all glued to the revelations about Herschel Walker, the ex-running back now running for Senator in Georgia.  Seriously now, what’s more important – a riveting, slanderous and ribald Senatorial race or my blog?  The results are in and it’s clear that you would rather hear about lying, sexual abuse and abortions than read witty and intelligent prose.  I guess I’ll just have to sink to your level by telling you about a new line of breakfast cereals geared to the sleazy and lascivious among us.  The brands include Captain Raunch, Froot Lewds and Porn Flakes.  There, are you happy now?

 

The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of things of life

As long as it’s not politics or aging or my wife.

 

Yes, in order to retrieve your patronage, I have decided this week not to talk about my wife or politics or getting older.  Nice talking to you.  See you next week.

 

Well, what else is there to talk about, rats?  Actually, I had a rat once.  Amanda, my assistant, found it in one of our vacant apartments.  It wasn’t wild; it was an abandoned pet rat in a fish-tank with a bunch of straw.  Amanda, in her constant quest to save the world, brought it to me and told me I was to keep it in my office as a pet, and, as I am highly trained to respond to the female voice, that’s what I did.  I cleaned its tank, got it some fresh straw and some rodent food and let it alone on a table behind my desk. 

 

After a month or so, the rat and I having become bored with each other, I decided to pay it a bit more attention.  First, I gave it a name – Rat.  I’m clever with words.  Then, in a burst of Pavlovian enthusiasm, I decided to train it.  Within a few weeks, and with the help of some shredded cheddar, Rat was eating out of my hand, and climbing up my arm to rest on my shoulder.   I know it sounds disgusting, but he was a small rat and kind of cute.  Unfortunately, however, life for a rodent, even a small and cute one, is evanescent, and after about two years, Rat passed away from natural causes, but I never forgot the thrill of training a wild beast.  I have since tried the same method with Shakespeare.  He bit me.  So did Carol.

 

 

 

I cannot fathom how the human brain works, especially my own.  Why, for instance, while driving home today did I suddenly realize that Peter Piper could not possibly have picked a peck of pickled peppers?  Wikipedia estimates there are 50,000 different kinds of peppers.  Fifty thousand!  There are pimiento, tobasco, cayenne, chili peppers, paprika, jalapeno, banana peppers and of course the common green pepper.  Peppers do not grow already pickled, so no one can pick a pickled pepper, any more than one could pick a stewed tomato or a pumpkin pie.  Even Peter Piper could not pick a pickled pepper, let alone a peck of them.  Case closed!  I sometimes frighten myself.

 

But I apparently don’t frighten you, because you’re back.  Hi there and welcome.  I hope you’re feeling dandy and practicing your dancing.  Carol and I decided to go dancing this week.  We call it the Shopping Shuffle or the Kohl’s Conga.  The dance involves a precise combination of steps including shopping, trying-on, calculating the price, bringing home, trying-on again and, a few days later, returning.  It’s a great deal of fun.  I included the step of calculating because, after all, this was Kohl’s where you get 30% off, an extra 10% for using your Kohl’s charge and random surprise gifts of Kohl’s cash.  We bought $392 worth of men’s and women’s clothing for which Kohl’s charged us a total of $1.65, not counting a special $40 coupon to be used next week.  They must make it up on volume.

 

We got home and began to unpack our sartorial treasure, whereupon I discovered that I had no place to store mine.  And worse, my investigation of available space disclosed that Shakespeare has more closet space than I do.  Well, what does it matter?  I’m just going to return it all tomorrow.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Knowest me not by my clothes? (Cymbeline)  I need a lot of space. I have toys and pillows and empty cardboard boxes and a battery-powered floppy fish and six or seven blankets and two belts I stole from Pop’s closet.  Shhh!  Purr.

 

I had good news and bad news today.  The good news is that I had my annual physical and, except for everything that’s wrong me, nothing was wrong with me.  The bad news was that I didn’t get the Wordle.  The word was CATCH.  I tried PATCH and WATCH and BATCH.  I was pissed.  For those of you who don’t play, you don’t know what I’m talking about.  Let me try to describe the game:

 

Now Wordle will force you to THINK

And will take you right up to the BRINK

‘Cause there’s only six TRIES

To arrive at the PRIZE

And if you don’t get it, you STINK.

 

Ok, we’ve gotten the obligatory limerick out of the way.  You liked it; you didn’t like it.  It’s over.  Let’s move on.  Evanescent, our Weekly Word, means vanishing quickly like a vapor, as I shall soon vanish from your Thursday.

 

I kept my promise though, didn’t I?  I didn’t talk about politics or getting old and I only mentioned Carol twice.   Well, now that makes three times.  I didn’t even talk about shoes and ships and sealing wax.  But I still have some room left, so let’s talk about constipation.  Have you ever had that?  I had a little bout with it recently, and in my research for a cure I found the oldest remedy for constipation ever recorded.  It’s in the Bible;

 

The Lord is my shepherd

His figs and his prunes, they comfort me

He preparest a table in the presence of mine enemas

He restoreth my stool.

 

And, as you know, when I start talking potty, it’s time to go.  At least I didn’t talk about anything runnething over.   So stayeth well, everybody, and counteth your blessings.  I’ll see you next week.  

 

Michael                          Sendeth comments to mfox1746@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

Blog #292                                October 13, 2022

 

 

Since Covid, I have been doing most of the grocery shopping.  A year ago, I was paying $1.29 for a dozen eggs.  Today they were $3.99. That’s triple the price!  C’mon you lazy cluckers, get your feathery butts in gear.  Stop playing and start laying.  I just booked a flight to North Carolina.  It’s cheaper to go visit my grand-chickens and raid their coop than to buy the eggs here.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I would drown myself for the love of a guinea hen (Othello).  He has grand-chickens?  I think he has grand-dogs and grand-cats too.  But there’s only one Shakespeare, and he loves me the best.  I guess I love him too, but don’t tell him that.  I like to stay aloof.  Ooh, can that be the Weekly Word?  I’ve always wanted to do one.  Aloof means unfriendly, cold and distant.  Purr-fect.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  I am doing fine, recovering from eye surgery.  Thank you all for your good wishes and warm encouragements.  My Dr. Retina is from India and the Dr. Sleep who gave me versed is from China.  They’ve changed the inscription on the Statue of Liberty, you know.  It now reads Give us your tired, your poor, your Anesthesiologists.   The operation went well and the recovery was only a minimal annoyance.  Even so, going under the knife makes you contemplate your final disposition.

 

Carol and I have been vacillating between buying some cemetery plots or doing the cremation thing.  There is a plot for me next to my parents and Carol has one next to her parents, but it just seems like we should be buried next to each other, doesn’t it?  She’ll have the plot closest to the bathroom.

 

Or, there’s composting.  I told you last week I would talk about Human Composting.  It’s the newest rage.  Now, in addition to the options of having your body buried in a box, cremated, donated for medical research, frozen or shot into space, you can have your body composted and turned into nutrient-rich soil available for planting.  So, when you lose a relative, plant a garden.

 

Whenever you’re ready to plant

You can’t forget compost, you can’t!

A niece would be nice

Or a cousin for spice

Or maybe an old saucy aunt.

 

The next time you eat a Granny Smith apple, just remember:  Granny might actually be in there.  By the way, if you ever think that I have died but you’re not 100% sure, just place my body in front of a TV playing Dancing with The Stars.  If there’s any life in me at all, I will get up and leave.

 

It seems like I’m always complaining about inflation and violence, but even little things aggravate me nowadays – like toilets.  Now, as I walk away from a public urinal or seat, it flushes itself.  Then at the sink I just pass my hand under the soap dispenser and soap comes out.  I wave my hands under the faucet and water comes out.  I approach the towel dispenser and towels come out.  If they could just figure it out so that if we waved our hands behind us, crap would come out, then we wouldn’t have to swallow fiber pills and laxatives.

 

And most annoying of all is politics.  It’s October already and the elections are less than a month away.  Who are you going to vote for?  How can you tell?  Barbara Kingsolver said, “The most impressive capacity of man is his skill for lying.”  If you watch CNN, you get one set of facts, but if you watch FOX, you get a different set.  It’s like going to a baseball game where all the Cardinal fans thought the guy was safe but all the Cub fans thought he was out.  And all the white folks thought O.J. was guilty while all the black folks thought he was innocent.  I’m not sure truth has any meaning anymore.

 

But then your truth might not be the same as mine.  William Blake said, “The tree which moves someone to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way.”  We look at things today with such radically opposed points of view, it’s amazing that we haven’t started another Civil War.  Except, after listening to all the hate-filled and profane rhetoric on both sides, we’ll have to call it The Uncivil War. 

 

There will be some differences, however, between the old war and the new. That old one was between the North and the South; this is between the Left and the Right.  That was between the Blue and the Gray; this is between the Red States and the Blue States.  On the surface, it seems to be lopsided.  The Left controls the broadcast news, the newspapers, the entertainment industry, the major universities, the social media, the education system and all the large corporations.  All the Right has is one news channel and a guy who sells pillows.

 

But, the Right has all the guns.  That could be important.  In 1839, Edward Bulwer-Lytton coined the phrase the pen is mightier than the sword.  I’m not sure, however, that the crayoned protest-poster is mightier than the AK-47. 

 

And speaking of voting, our Congressional representatives tend to be disappointing, don’t they?  As Will Rogers said, “Taxpayers are sending Congressmen on expensive trips abroad. It might be worth it except they keep coming back.”

 

Wow, Will Rogers, Barbara Kingsolver, William Blake and the ever-popular Eddie Bulwer-Lytton.  Sounds like a bridge game, but it’s just a few quotes I thought you’d like.

 

I passed a drug-rehab center today and there was a sign on the lawn that said, KEEP OFF THE GRASS.  Have you ever had a bad habit that was hard to break?  Maybe even an addiction?  I used to smoke, but I don’t do that anymore.  It was easy to stop – the 86^th time.  I used to drink, but I don’t do that either.  There’s one thing to remember about bad habits or addictions -- just because you got the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.  Well, there’s one habit that’s impossible to break – Limerick Oyster.  There’ll be another one next week and I know you’ll be there.  You’re addicted.  Stay well and count those blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #291                                October 6, 2022

 

I have told you many times that I know nothing about cars or anything else mechanical.  I only know about useless stuff – like Edgar Allen Poe or chemistry.  Here’s some chemistry:  Two hydrogen atoms meet. One says, 'I've lost my electron.' The other says 'Are you sure?' The first replies, 'Yes, I'm positive.'  See?  Useless!

 

Every year, I get a physical from my doctor.  I’m sure you do too.  One of the first things they do is get your weight and height.  Among the puzzling vagaries of the English language is the bizarre circumstance that weight and height are spelled the same but pronounced differently.   And besides:

 

·        BOUGH rhymes with cow

·        COUGH rhymes with off

·        DOUGH rhymes with so

·        ROUGH rhymes with cuff

 

Where was I?  Weight, for most of us, goes up or down, but height is an alarming one-way street, an inexorable shrinkage leading eventually to your grandchildren calling you Shorty.

 

After they tell you that you are half an inch closer to the carpeting than you were last year, they give you a battery of questionnaires, one of which is to determine if you are depressed.  Of course I’m depressed!  Who wouldn’t be depressed after learning that their new friends are Happy, Sleepy, Dopey and Doc?  During the physical, I told Dr. Doctor that I was having some problem with my vision.  He told me to see an eye doctor.  I said, “If I could see an eye doctor, I wouldn’t need to see an eye doctor.” 

 

Actually, tomorrow I’m having another eye surgery.  I didn’t want to tell you about it, because I didn’t want you to worry.  It’s a lensectomy and a vitrectomy and a hysterectomy.  Wait, maybe that’s wrong.  I get confused with all those ectomies.  I need an Ectomy Directory.  They told me I could not have any caffeine for 24 hours before the test. What?  No caffeine?  No Diet-Coke in the morning?  That’s like telling Donald Trump, NO HAIR SPRAY.  It’s like telling Joe Biden, NO CUE CARDS.  It’s like telling a Catholic priest, NO ALTAR BOYS.  During that 24-hour period, I will not write to you because, with no caffeine, I’ll be as jumpy as a caterpillar in a herd of elephants.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I missed you.  It’s really nice to have someone to talk to.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Today’s Weekly Word is vagaries, which are unexpected and inexplicable changes, kind of like what happens every new paragraph here.

 

Next Tuesday is Columbus Day.  Is there still a Columbus Day?  I wonder if Chris knew it was Columbus Day when he discovered America.  Actually, he didn’t even know it was America.  He thought it was India.  (That’s why all the natives were called Indians.)  And besides, his name wasn’t Christopher Columbus; it was Cristobal Colόn.  But how would it sound if we celebrated Colon Day?  Instead of Italian parades and meat balls, there’d be sigmoidoscopes and Miralax. 

 

There’s so much interesting stuff going around that I have written two limericks for you this week, and I don’t know which one to use – the one about Polo or the one about Human Composting.  I think I’ll save the one about Human Composting for next week.  That’ll get you to come back.

 

Last weekend, we went to a polo match.  It was a charity event for Old Newsboys Charities, a first-class organization that benefits over 150 worthwhile children’s charities.  It was a great event, everyone had a good time and, yes, there was a polo match.  It was fun, but I might like the other kind of polo better:

 

In Polo you’re racing around

While smacking a ball on the ground

Water Polo is better

Except you’ll get wetter

And most of your horses will drown.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Let’s to billiards (Antony and Cleopatra).  Cats aren’t good at water polo, and I can’t play pool.  We’re good at ping-pong.  Even with only one front paw, I can sit and swat ping-pong balls.  Life is good!  Purr.

 

We went to a local restaurant recently with some friends.  As the waitress handed out our menus, she took pride in informing us that all the vegetables were organically grown and all the seafood was responsibly raised.  I, being an irreverent smart-ass, asked her how you responsibly raised a mussel.  Come on!  I can understand feeling sorry for a cow with those big watery eyes, or a pig with the funny snout and the cute tail, or even a chicken with its beautiful feathers.  I understand the “let’s not eat anything with a face” crowd.  But shellfish?  Woody Allen said, “I will not eat oysters.  I want my food dead, not sick or wounded.” 

 

So back to the question of responsibly raising a mussel.  What does that mean?  Do they sing to it, pet it, let it watch Dancing with the Starfish, paint its nails?  No, they farm raise it, squashed next to a million of its cousins like sardines (interesting phrase), then rip it off its anchorage and kill it.  To me, I wouldn’t care if they sent it to Princeton and gave it a tiny Mercedes for Christmas.  I still wouldn’t eat the slimy little thing.

 

On Tuesday night, Carol and I attended Temple services on the eve of Yom Kippur, the most holy of Jewish holidays.  It is on this night that the congregation recites an all-encompassing alphabetic litany of transgressions for which they seek God’s forgiveness.  It is a lovely and moving ceremony.  But I’d like to know what night God’s going to show up and ask for our forgiveness.  I’ll be right there, in the front row, waiting for the Old Charlatan to explain why we should forgive Him for hurricanes, floods, hunger, war, disease, pain, suffering – and mosquitoes.  As Don Quixote said, “Oh, how we mortals wait and hope in vain!”

 

So, if I get hit by lightning for saying that, it will prove 1) that God is really up there, and 2) that He’s really not good at forgiving.  And if nothing happens, well, I’ll be back next week.  Don’t miss it.  I promised you Human Composting, didn’t I?  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and don’t get hit by lightning.

 

Michael                Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com.  Actually, you might as well send them straight to Hell.  That’s most likely where I’ll be.