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.