Blog #311                                         February 23, 2023

 

Did you ever feel like you were holding all the cards, then realized that the world only wanted to play chess?  It makes you feel lower than a bad dog’s tail.  That’s how I felt this morning, still struggling with my vision; still not driving.  So, to cheer myself up, I listened to some old rock ‘n roll on a cable music channel.  I remembered every artist and every lyric from 60 years ago, even though I can’t remember where my glasses are.  Let’s see how good your recall is.

 

These are three opening lines of songs that start out by telling you when:

Long long time ago

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday

Just yesterday morning

 

And these are some that start out by telling you where:

Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans

On a dark desert highway

On a warm summer’s eve on a train bound for nowhere

 

See if you can remember the songs.  You should get most of them unless you have spent the last sixty years watching Susan Lucci and Judge Judy.  You know who you are.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and watching the skies for more balloons or whatever those things are.  Our government doesn’t know what they are, or so they say.  I’m skeptical.  We have satellites that can read the license plate on your car.  We can calculate within an inch how close some asteroid will come to hitting the Earth.  Didn’t you ever watch Homeland?  The government knows everything.  They just won’t tell us.  That’s why there are so many classified documents lying around in everybody’s house.

 

We’re pretty sure these things are not space aliens, they tell us, because we waved to them and they didn’t wave back or start flashing “PHONE HOME” signs.  Maybe it’s just Lizzo drying out her underwear or a new way for the Pillow Guy to deliver his merchandise. We don’t care.  Just stop lying to us and tell us what they are.

 

You know, by the time the next L. Oyster arrives, it will be March.  March is full of interesting stuff.  First comes  Day, the 14^th of March.  You see, March 14 is otherwise written as 3/14 and since π starts out 3.14, some mathematically inclined and otherwise unoccupied clown decided it would be a good day to celebrate π.  I don’t exactly know how they celebrate, but I’m guessing they eat pecan π and πnapple and all kinds of sπcy foods. 

 

Right after π Day comes the Ides of March, the day when Brutus brutally (see the connection?) stabbed Julius Caesar.  The event sparked widespread rioting to encourage the Roman Senate to pass Knife Control legislation.  Half the Romans wanted to ban knives completely, but the RKA (Roman Knife Association) wanted to make sure everybody had a knife.  Wasn’t that silly?  Anyway, on the 15^th of March, watch out for anybody named Brutus.  Then on the 17^th, watch out for little green men.  Yes, the 17^th is St. Patrick’s Day.  So in the short space of four days, you could get a π in the face, a knife in the back or an Irishman passed out on your couch.  March is a great month!

 

Last Sunday, my printer ran out of ink, so I installed a new cartridge and ordered a replacement from Amazon.  Two hours later the package arrived.  Two hours!  That is some serious Fairy Godmother shit.  Just snap your fingers and there it is.  I went back on Amazon and ordered a pair of glass slippers and four mice.

 

Message from Shakespeare: Not a mouse stirring (Hamlet).  Mice?  I told him I would not allow any more pets in my house.  And if he expects me to eat them, he has another mouse coming.  I eat salmon patė, not filthy rodents.  Purr.

 

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday and the day before was Fat Tuesday, which I always remind you is Mardi Gras in French.  I think they should make Valentine’s Day and Fat Tuesday the same day.  Makes sense to me.

 

What doesn’t make sense to me is having a five-year-old girl bring a loaded gun to school.  Did you hear that egregious story?  Where did she get the gun?  Did it come with her Serial Killer Barbie?  Did she get a My Little Colt for Christmas?  I know I’m making jokes, but this is just stupid!  I guess now we need a security guard to frisk every kindergarten student.  Less money for teachers, but what difference does it make?  The City of Baltimore reported 24 of its schools do not have a single student “proficient” in math.  What kind of generation are we raising?

 

It really should not be a shock

That Zach came to school with a Glock

Or five-year-old Suzie

Showed up with an Uzi

They’re armed and they’re dumb as a rock.

 

Movie Review:  It’s been a long time since we’ve been to a movie, but this weekend we saw A Man Called Otto with Tom Hanks.  It was marvelous!  I read the book and saw the movie made in Swedish.  They were both named A Man Called Ove and were terrific.  Go see this one.  You’ll smile.  You’ll cry.  It’s a good one.

 

It’s already time to give you the song answers.  I know you got them all right.

 

Long long time ago – American Pie – Don McLean

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday - Piano Man – Billy Joel

Just yesterday morning - Fire and Rain – James Taylor

Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans

          Johnny B Goode – Chuck Berry

On a dark desert highway - Hotel California – Eagles

On a warm summer’s eve on a train bound for nowhere

(You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em)

          The Gambler – Kenny Rogers

 

No?  Too much Judge Judy?  Well, I certainly know when to fold ‘em, and that would be right about now.  Besides, the mice just arrived and Shakespeare looks angry.  I hope this week’s blog hasn’t been too egregious, which, of course, is our Weekly Word.  Egregious means outstandingly bad and shocking.  Are you writing all these down?  There’ll be a quiz.  Anyway, stay well and count your blessings, but never count your money when you’re sitting at the table.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #310                                February 16, 2023

 

Grandchild #3 (Alyssa) has been accepted into college.  She’s first in her high-school graduating class of 650, so I wasn’t worried about her.  Hey, it’s my blog and I can brag about my grandchildren.  I texted her congratulations.  She texted back that she was still waiting to hear from a few other schools.  She said she hoped she would get into Washington University here in St. Louis so she could be close to me.  I said “That’s great!  You could major in Bullshit.”  I guess that would be a BS Degree.

 

Hi there, welcome back and Happy Valentine’s Day.  I hope you are feeling well and staying warm.  On the radio this morning, they said, “The temperature is 33, but it feels like 27,” so I called up the weather service and asked them what 27 felt like.  They said 22.

 

Did you get a lot of Valentine’s candy from your Sweetie?  I have a Valentine story to tell you.  I’ve probably told it to you before, but it is 100% true, and a little . . . well, embarrassing.  One Valentine’s Day, many years ago, I went out and bought Carol all her favorite candy and a gushy, frilly, loving card.  She got me a pair of boxer shorts, no card.  The boxers were pink with dozens of little red hearts.  Ok, we hugged and I threw the shorts in a drawer while she ate her delicious candy.

 

Six years later.  I had been alone for five days.  Carol was at a spa somewhere in Utah, but from there she was flying to Phoenix and I was going to meet her for a little vacation.  The night before I left, I finished packing and went to bed early.  In the morning when I began to dress, I noticed that all my underwear was either in the laundry or in the suitcase except for one folded-up pair of boxers scrunched at the back of the drawer.  I grabbed it.  It was pink with little red hearts.  Well, shoot!  All the rest were packed and nobody was going to see them anyway.

 

Four hours later.  I landed in Phoenix and was picked up by my friend Frank.  Before dropping me at my hotel, he first wanted to pick up something at his house.  We got there, and when he opened the front door, Rosy, his seventy-pound killer Rottweiler, lunged past him and immediately bit me in the butt.  Frank was beside himself with concern.  He begged me to pull down my pants so he could see if I was bleeding.  Well, I didn’t care if I was bleeding!  I didn’t care if I had rabies!  I didn’t care if Lon Chaney Jr. jumped out of a potted plant and told me I was going to turn into a werewolf!  All I cared about was that I was wearing pink underwear with red hearts and I was not about to expose them to Frank or anyone else.  He insisted; I refused.  Did your mother ever tell you not to wear torn underwear?  You might get hit by a bus and the doctor will see, she would say.  Mother was always right about those things.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  If I had my mouth, I would bite (Much Ado About Nothing).  Just show me the animal that bit my Pops and I will scratch its eyes out.  Yes, I do bite my Pops sometimes, but he’s mine and I have to train him.  He’s a good boy.  Purr.

 

Are you becoming frightened with all these balloon objects floating over our country?  They just found another one – white, huge, floating over the Canadian-US border.  Air Force pilots reported it was a life-sized effigy of Donald Trump wearing a hat that read MAKE AMERICA FLOAT AGAIN.  The pilots claim to have shot it down.  Trump denies it.

 

I get so many nice comments from you, and I am very appreciative and humble to receive them.  I got one last week from a reader who said she was “addicted” to Limerick Oyster and just had to have it every Thursday.  Wasn’t that nice?  An addiction is usually not good, but I don’t think that a few jokes and a limerick every week could be so terrible.  Here’s one of those limericks.

 

Do not get addicted to weed

Or heroin, pain pills or speed

No booze and no porn

But each Thursday morn

It’s Limerick Oyster you need.

 

And, at no extra charge, you learn a new word every week.  Our Weekly Word is effigy, which means a sculpture or model of a person.  There are plenty of effigies of our nation’s 46 Presidents.  Actually, there have only been 45, but Cleveland gets counted twice because – well, why not?  Monday, of course, is Presidents Day.  When I was younger (in Grover Grover Cleveland Cleveland’s day) I used to hold these men in awe.  The glorious iconic leaders like Washington and Lincoln and Eisenhower.  To me, they were heroic, trustworthy, brave.  Now I am older, and I have been often disappointed with the more-recent Presidents.  Some have been moral midgets.  Some have been mental midgets.  All we need is Snow White.

 

On Presidents Day, we commemorate the day in 1778 when George Washington sold his first sofa and lounge chair to James Madison. Free delivery and no payments until 1780.

 

Next Tuesday is the day after Presidents’ Day, which is significant in its own way.  On this day in 1778, the first return in American history occurred when James Madison brought back the sofa and lounge chair to George because they were damaged in delivery.  Madison had no trouble transporting the furniture.  He used his Dolly.

 

I know you often think there is method to my madness, but sometimes, in truth, there is just madness.

 

The Super Bowl was entertaining.  The halftime show, not so much.  Look, I admit Rihanna is not in my music era.  My music era began with the Everly Brothers and ended with the Zombies, but I suppose her music is popular.  But a superstar, performing on stage while rubbing her butt and her pubic areas is, in my humble and aged opinion, repulsive.

 

I’ll leave you with that wholesome image and hope you come back next week.  You have to – you’re addicted.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #309                                         February 9, 2023

 

As I was working in my study this morning, Shakespeare jumped on my desk and began staring at the computer screen.  He sat there unmoving for 15 minutes.  I knew what he wanted – a bird video.  Ok, I’m a pushover.  I put on the bird video he likes -- squirrels and little birds eating from a display of nuts and seeds.  He turned and stared at me.  I knew what that look meant too – get off your chair and let me sit there, and adjust the pillow so I can see the birds better.  I did that too, and he immediately curled up on the chair pillow and settled in for the bird show.  I’m surprised he didn’t ask for popcorn.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The cuckoo then, on every tree, mocks married men (Love’s Labours Lost).  No, Pops, I don’t need popcorn.  I’ll just eat the keys off your computer when you’re not looking.  Purr.

 

I went to the couch and read, not willing to leave him alone with my computer.  He was happy, until, that is, he heard Carol take the sheets out of the dryer.  He leapt down and raced into the bedroom so he could roll in and out among the sheets and blankets as we tried to put them back on the bed.  It’s his favorite thing.  What a life.

 

We all know that our vision is measured as 20-20 or 20-40 and so on.  The higher the second number, the worse your vision until it gets up to 20-500 where your vision is so bad, you can’t even see Al Sharpton’s hair.  After 20-500, and this is true, the vision categories become:

·        How many fingers?

·        Can you see the waving hands?

·        Can you see the moving light?

·        Blind!

 

My right eye was in the waving hands category for two months.

                                     

Hi there and welcome back.  A week ago was Groundhog Day.  I hope you saw your shadow because, if you saw your shadow, you were someplace sunny.  How nice.  And I hope you’re feeling well today.  Did that big, bodacious Chinese Spy Balloon frighten you?  It apparently didn’t frighten President Biden, because he chose not to shoot it down right away.  I guarantee you he would have shot it down if it had been wearing a MAGA hat.  The Pentagon would not tell us exactly where it was, even though every news channel had a chart of its movements like it was Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.  I suppose the Pentagon thought the balloon’s location was classified material.  Well, no matter, you can always find a copy in the trunk of Joe Biden’s Corvette.  They wouldn’t tell us what was inside the balloon either, but I know.

 

That big thing that looks like the Moon

Is just a Chinese Spy Balloon

It can see, it can hear

Cause it’s loaded with gear

And a million and two crab Rangoon.

 

Now that’s what I call a delivery.  Probably for a Super Bowl party at Mar-a-Lago.  Our Weekly Word is bodacious which means remarkable or noteworthy.

 

Are you ready for Super Bowl LVII?  That’s 57 for those of you who don’t speak Roman.  And how long are we going to keep counting things in Roman Numerals?  The Roman Empire has been dead for 1547 years.  Excuse me, MDXLVII years.  Ridiculous!

 

On Sunday, 70,000 people will gather like flies on a dead horse to watch the game.  They will see very little of it, hear none of it, have beer spilled on them and have a wonderful time.  And that’s just the party I’m going to.  I like people; I like my friends.  What I don’t like is listening to a bunch of women all talking loudly during the game about what’s really important: whether that guy in South Carolina actually killed his wife and son or why they haven’t tried the Idaho killer yet.  These lovely, kind, gentle women love to talk about violent and bloody crime.

 

I’m a little confused about the actual football game.  My high-school teams were the Indians when I was there.  Of course, when I was there, there were still Indians.    That name has been changed to the Lions.  The Washington Redskins are now the Commanders.  Ok, I get it.  But the Kansas City Chiefs are still the Chiefs and play in Arrowhead Stadium.  Where are the picketing mobs of politically correct protestors?  Where are Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, Tonto?  How can they get away with using that name?  I have the perfect politically correct name if they ever put an NFL team in Alabama – the Mobile Warming.

 

Some time ago, a year or more, I was at a funeral.  I don’t even remember whose funeral it was because I was so distracted by the rabbi who was wearing a cowboy hat throughout the service.  Now, whereas this accessory covers the head as required, it was a little strange to watch Rabbi Tex doing the 23^rd Psalm.  My Stetson runneth over.  Surely Lone Ranger and Tonto shall follow me all the days of my life.  There must have been some Jewish cowboys in the Wild West, don’t you think?  How about Kvetch Cassidy and the Sundance Yid or Doc High Holiday or Schlepalong Cassidy?  

 

I’m still not driving yet after my eye surgery, so my wife took me to Kohl’s.  I cannot shop by myself.  Let me rephrase that – I am not allowed to shop by myself.  That’s fine, I need help.  I must have tried on 40 articles of clothing, but, as Carol likes to say, “You’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a Prince.”   I wonder how many frogs she kissed before she found me.  Or maybe I was just the last frog.  I love shopping at Kohl’s!  Everything was on sale plus we had a 30% off coupon.  I bought three pairs of shoes, 16 pairs of pants, 42 shirts and a Godiva chocolate bar for a total of $4.98.  It’s a miracle.

 

And it’s also a miracle that I made it through another bodacious blog.  I hope you liked it, but it’s time to go.  I have to go kiss a few frogs.  Try Limerick Oyster again next week.  It’s good for your health.  Warning – side effects may include laughter.  Stay well, keep smiling and count your blessings.

 

Schlepalong                                       Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

  

 

 

Blog #308                                February 2, 2023

 

What in me is dark, illumine.  What is low, raise and support.  That is the exhortation John Milton offered to the muse, Urania, to inspire him as he began writing Paradise Lost in 1658.  I went to school with John.  Well, sometimes I feel that old.  You know you’re old when you fill in your date of birth in some online application and the dropdown box hits the floor before it gets to your year.

 

Every writer needs an inspiration, a muse.  My muse is, of course, my wife.  Not only that, she’s most of my material, and as much as I pick on her every week, she’s pretty much a combination of Glenda the Good, Mother Theresa, Joan of Arc, Martha Stewart and Natalie Wood.  Well, I may have exaggerated a bit with the Joan of Arc, although Carol does like to be warm.  Even so, she’s a jewel.   Some men have an old bag for a wife, I have a Judith Leiber.

 

But she picks on me as much as I pick on her.  She says I have two faults – I don’t listen and something else.  I’m pretty sure I have more than two faults.  I am moody, stubborn, quick-tempered, forgetful, moody and often forgetful.  In my 77 years, I’ve crammed so much stuff into my brain cells that other stuff had to leak out to make room.  So I am often a font of cogent and titillating information but, just as often, lost.  I recently had somebody from Arthur Murray come and paint footprints on the carpeting so I could find the bathroom.  Cha-Cha-Cha.

 

My neighbors take care of Shakespeare when I’m out of town, and I take care of their plants when they’re gone.  Last winter I was watering their jade plant, a gnarled and brawny old beauty that probably weighs more than 60 pounds.  I noticed a twig on the floor that had fallen off the jade.  That wasn’t abnormal; the jade sheds leaves and twigs from time to time.  This twig was Y-shaped, about eight inches long and had a few healthy leaves on each arm.  I didn’t feel like throwing it away, so I took it home.  I found a small glass vase, filled it with some soil I scraped from under a bush outside and shoved the base of the Y into the soil.  I’m not good with plants -- black thumb they call it – but I put the vase on the porch, an environment with little sun and little warmth in winter.  There it sat.  I watered it each Sunday and after a year it was still in its little vase growing over the edge.  When my daughter was in town in December, she took pity on it and bought a large pot and some potting soil and replanted the little thing.  It’s now sitting in my kitchen, still small but healthy, waiting for warm weather and a trip back to the porch.  I have named it Nemo, which is Latin for nobody.  No, you will not see a new section in each blog called Message from Nemo.  Nemo can’t talk.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I would I had some flowers o’ the spring (The Winter’s Tale).  Of course plants can’t talk.  Only cats and a few humans can.  Even if it could talk, what would it do?  Recite a limb-erick.  I’m so funny I could just purr, but I’m not happy he named the ugly thing, like it was a pet.  There will be no more pets in my house!  Grrr.

 

As the writer Robert A. Heinlein said, Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.  Hi there and welcome back.  I know you’re not going to believe this, but I had another cornea transplant on Tuesday.  The last one, three weeks ago, didn’t “take”, so Dr. Eye decided to try something a little different.  He’s using a kangaroo cornea this time.  It should work fine, but I will always hop.  Only kidding, but I did have the operation and now I’m lying on my back for 22 hours a day again, dependent upon my wife for care.  That’s why I said all those nice things about her before.  Obviously, I am writing this in advance.  I hope you’re all doing well.  Today is Groundhog Day and I am happy to report that:

 

·        Punxsutawney Phil crawled out of his burrow, saw that Donald Trump and Joe Biden both were planning to run again, then went back inside and shot himself.  Or he may have just hired Alec Baldwin to shoot him.

·        Joe Biden crawled out of his Corvette and saw a bunch of lawyers searching his garage.

·        Representative George Santos crawled out of his office and claimed he was the real Punxsutawney Phil.  And the Tooth Fairy too.

 

I was a math teacher once, and one thing I can do while staring at the ceiling this week is solve mathematical problems in my head.  I’m planning on writing a racy and erotic novel about a math teacher one day.  I think I’ll call it Fraction in the Rye.  Or maybe Five Squared Times Two Shades of Grey.  Or Tropic of Calculus.

 

The following is an absolutely true news report:

 

All jailed Russian mothers

 would be freed regardless

 of their crimes under an

amnesty proposal

Putin has approved.

I think Putin decided on the amnesty after receiving the following letter from a group of sad Russian children:

 

We’re writing you, Dear Mr. Commissar

To find out where all of our Mamas are

We’re very good Commies

And we miss our Mommies

‘Cause we don’t know where our pajamas are.

 

I thought that was a pretty clever limerick, until I heard there is now an artificial intelligence program that can write limericks.  What?  As clever as that?  That rhymes with commissar?  I mean, who are you going to bet on, a modern, highly technical and sophisticated machine or an old, blind man with a pacemaker?  Don’t answer that.

 

Our Weekly Word is exhortation, which is an emphatic urging, like me exhorting you to come back next week and see if I’ve been replaced by some antiseptic Artificial Intelligence that won’t even tell you to stay well and count your blessings.  Or find a rhyme for commissar.

 

  Michael                                           Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com