Blog #342                                September 28, 2023

 

Let’s start this edition with an apology.  Last week, I mentioned the story of the fugitive murderer in Pennsylvania being at-large for two weeks.  I used the story to make fun of the police for not being able to find him, and I have been roundly chastised by a few readers.  I agree with them.  I regret saying anything to denigrate the police in any way.  My wife didn’t like that paragraph from the beginning.  You should always listen to your wife!  My bad, Blue!  Let’s move on.

 

Happy New Year to all my Jewish friends.  We did not go to the Kol Nidre services on Sunday night because of Covid, but Carol tried to stream it and put it on the television.  She tried for 15 seconds and gave up.  It’s not letting me do it, she mewled.  So I called my daughter, who walked me through it.  Piece of cake.  You see, I have the patience of Job (a little Bible-ness there) and Carol has the patience of an ice cube in a microwave.  Now we are listening to the mellifluous strains of Kol Nidre, and enjoying it. 

 

Mellifluous, a fine Weekly Word, means having a smooth, rich flow; smooth and sweet.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is.  I liked the music.  Does that mean I’m Jewish?  Maybe, when they cut off my leg and my balls, they circumcised me too.  I think Pops has changed my name to Katz.  Purr.

 

While Carol was cooking for the Jewish holidays, I heard her call my name from three rooms away, “Michael, I saved a cookie for you.  It was broken.”  That’s really all I’m worth, apparently – the broken cookies, the fatty pieces of brisket and the undersized matzoh balls.  The streetable food, the good-looking food, is saved for the guests, and I’m stuck with the broken cookies and undersized balls.  Don’t you dare make a joke!  That’s my job.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Do you remember the game MONOPOLY?  Now Hasbro has released Ms. MONOPOLY where women players get $240 for passing Go while men players only get $200 and where, instead of buying real estate, players buy chocolate-chip cookies.  I promise you, I have not made this up.  The concept has annoyed me a little, so I have decided to create some male-oriented board games.

 

Games for Guys:  While the girls are playing SORRY! the guys are playing Oh my God, Honey, I’m So SORRY! where the men have to spend an entire week circling the board because they didn’t notice their wives’ new haircut.

 

In the northern part of St. Louis County is the City of Ferguson.  That’s right, the Michael Moore Ferguson.  I just saw the Ferguson Mayor celebrating an innovative solution to the car theft that is rampant everywhere.  Ferguson has had over 150 car thefts this year, mostly Hyundais and Kias.  His solution is to partner with Hyundai to install new software in their cars.  There it is – problem solved.  That’s how a society should work, crows the Mayor.  He is very proud.  He is also wrong, totally wrong, profoundly wrong, infuriatingly wrong.

 

I have a Kia.  It’s not my fault or Kia’s fault that the car is easy to steal.  Am I to blame that my car gets stolen?  Is the jewelry store to blame because its merchandise is expensive?  Is it the girl’s fault for getting sexually abused because she wears a short skirt.  The authorities nowadays want to surrender to the criminals.  Let’s make marijuana legal, they say; let’s make mass shoplifting and retail theft unpunishable.  Let’s make car theft the car owner’s fault.  Hands up – don’t steal my car!

 

Games for Guys:  While the girls are playing CANDY LAND, the men are playing BEER BELLY, comparing how far forward they have to lean before they can see their shoes.

 

I have found a new place to exercise – the grocery store.  I call the distance from bananas to milk and back to bananas one Fruit Loop.  You know, like a Light Year or a Nautical Mile?  I can do a few Fruit Loops, and it takes my mind off the soaring food prices.  I think the Biden Administration has found a way to stop illegal immigration.  They have made it so expensive to live in the United States that no-one will want to come here anymore!

 

Besides, it’s getting harder and harder to figure out which product to buy.  There’s low-fat-no-carbs, lotsa-fat-no-sugar, fat-free-extra-protein, gluten-free-extra carbs.  And that’s just the laundry detergent!

 

Games for Guys:  While the girls are playing Dungeons and Dragons, the men are playing Headaches and Heartaches, trying to avoid penalty cards like:  Sorry, your wife has a headache.  Go directly to Sleep, do not even get close to GO.

 

Carol and I went to a chucker this week.  A chucker is the 7½ minute interval in a polo match.  Some matches have four chuckers and some have six.  The polo match was part of a charity event, the Old Newsboys Pony Up for Kids Charity Polo Match which benefits nearly 100 local children’s charities.  It was quite a lot of fun.  And no, I am not going to write a limerick about the polo.  I’m in enough trouble, I don’t need to write a poem rhyming with chucker.

 

But I will write one about the Zoo.  This week, Carol and I also attended a party at the Zoo for the volunteers.  It was lovely, but as we strode around the grounds, there were no animals to be seen.  I told her that in the evening, the animals go to bed early.

 

Sometimes, when you’re visiting zoos

There aren’t any animal views.

The bears are asleep

And the wolf’s counting sheep

And the lion is watching the gnus.

 

Games for Guys:  While the girls are playing CLUE, the men can play CLUELESS, a mystery game where the men try to decide what belt to wear with a pink shirt.

 

I should stop now.  I’m not sure how much more trouble I can get into in one week, but I feel like I’m on the edge.  Stay well, count your blessings and be sure to come visit next week.  Where else can you get this kind of stuff?

 

Colonel Mustard                                Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com.

 

Blog # 341                                         September 21, 2023

 

Well, they finally caught the fugitive murderer, Danelo Cavalcante in Pennsylvania and managed to take a group photo so every one of the 500 police officers, who couldn’t find the five-foot-tall, depraved Brazilian for two weeks, could have a souvenir of their epic victory.  And it wasn’t even the police who caught him; it was a dog.  Now each clueless officer can hang the group photo on the wall next to his deer-antlers and tell his grandkids what a hero he was.  Five hundred of them couldn’t find one guy for two weeks!  Carol doesn’t agree with me, of course.  I heard they even gave a copy of the photo to the little Brazilian.  He hung it on the wall in his cell with a caption that read, “These clowns couldn’t find the water from the deck of a cruise ship.” 

 

 

I went grocery shopping today.  First, of course, I went to my McDonald’s. Yes, it’s my McDonald’s!  I’ve gone there every morning for years and it’s mine.  But I haven’t been there for a few weeks.  They must have missed me, because I saw a customer buy a carton of milk, and my picture was on it.

 

Back to the grocery store.  I don’t know what news stations you watch, but if they are telling you that inflation is down and Bidenomics has made everything better, don’t buy a used car from them.  My electric bill is up 30%.  The cable bill goes up $20 every time Trump gets indicted.  I don’t buy clothes, but I do shop at grocery stores.  I have been doing most of the shopping for three years, and you know I pay attention to numbers.  Don’t ever mess with me when it comes to numbers.  I may be lousy at a million other things, but numbers are my specialty.

 

There are so many talents I lack

But I have a numerical knack

To constantly count

Any sum or amount

If it goes up or down, I keep track.

 

The same bag of cat food that was under $9 three years ago is now $11.50.  Lettuce is through the roof.  Carol’s favorite candy is up 25% in the last year.  No wonder the restaurants are so expensive.  They have to buy food too.  And my home insurance just went up 30%.  I might have to start charging you for Limerick Oyster. 

 

Only kidding.  I certainly wouldn’t pay to read the rantings of an obsessive, misanthropic lunatic who knows the price of Great Value Vanilla Sandwich Cookies from three years ago ($1.24).  Now they’re $2.39. 

 

It looks like Fall has somehow crept upon us while we weren’t watching.  I’m looking forward to it.  Fall is my favorite season -- mid 70s, low humidity, wisps of clouds punctuating an otherwise blue sky.  Hi there, and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling good and appropriately Autumnal. 

 

Speaking of things I buy at the grocery, let’s talk about lunch.  Carol thinks it’s her wifely duty to make me lunch.  I won’t put up with it.  Men and women have a different approach to food.  Take the peanut butter and jelly classic.  A woman takes an artisan, whole wheat slice, centers it on a small plate, spreads a thin patina of peanut butter over it, whispers the essence of jelly on top and covers it with a matching slice of bread.  Then she cuts the crust off and places two baby carrots on the plate.

 

A man takes bread – any kind of damn bread, Ritz cracker or leftover hotdog bun – something that will hold the gigantic glops of peanut butter and gargantuan globules of jelly he dumps on it indiscriminately, then throws the whole mess on a big plate with some BBQ potato chips.  Does anybody see a difference here?  And what is the thing about cutting off the crust?  Does every woman carry a genetic imperative to slice off the crust of her man’s PB&J as if it were his foreskin?  Don’t they know that Adam made a deal with God?  You can have my foreskin, God, but don’t touch the crust on my PB&J.

 

I spoke last week about my previous operations.  Have you forgotten already?  I remember, during the home recovery from my hip replacement, Carol placed a bell on my nightstand.  She realized she couldn’t possibly hear my voice over the constant cacophony of Joy Behar, Pat Sajak and Ken Jennings in the other room, so she gave me a bell.  It’s the kind those Swiss people used to ring on the Ed Sullivan Show.  Grab it by the handle and shake it and – OMG, here comes Hurricane Carol whooshing down the hall to satisfy my beck and my call.  Such a good girl! This, my friends, is power!  This is the power of a Sultan to call his harem, the power of a shepherd to gather his flock, the power of a dictator to summon a crowd.  I loved it!  I used my bell at least twice a day to summon my speedy Florence Nightingale even though I didn’t need her. 

 

Well, she figured that out and informed me that this taking-care-of-me crap was getting old.  She repossessed my bell (she called it busting my bells) and informed me that we were now getting back to our usual routine – keeping her happy.  Now my nightstand is as empty as Lady Godiva’s closet; as empty as Al Capone’s safe; as empty as a hermit’s address book; as empty as Mitch McConnell’s brain.  Was that enough?

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I go, and it is done. The bell invites me (Macbeth).  He tried that bell with me, but cats don’t come running (in my case limping) to a bell.  What does he thing I am, some ignorant puppy?  I’ll move when I want to move.  Purr.

 

What’s our Weekly Word?  How about cacophony?  It means a harsh, discordant mixture of sounds.  To me, that’s what most television is.

 

But the tinkling of a little bell is not cacophonous.  Maybe I can find that old night stand bell and use it to summon you back here next week.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and be here on time.  Can you remember all that?  Or is your brain as empty as – oh, never mind.  See you all next week.  No charge. 

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #340                                         September 14, 2023

 

Last weekend was our 60^th high school reunion.  Both Carol and I graduated University City High School (U. City) in 1963.  The reunion was very nice, and I actually got to see some special women from my younger days.  My Childhood Sweetheart (VB) was there.  We were neighbors and used to spend time at each other’s house.  That was when we were 7-12 years old.  She looked great!  Then there was my First Girlfriend (JB).  From 13 on, we were jitterbug partners and best of friends.  She looked wonderful.  And then, my Bestest Forever High School Sweetheart (CB), who, by the way, has been my wife for the last 56 years.  She looked spectacular.  What great fun and memories!

 

There was another girl there (KS) who I always thought was really cute back in school.  At our 50^th reunion, she told me she had a crush on me in high school.  “Schmuck,” I replied, “why didn’t you tell me?”  Then she told Carol that she thought I was very funny.  Carol looked at her and said, “You must have the wrong person.”  Rodney and I don’t get no respect.

 

Actually, everybody looked good.  About 125 people were there, out of a class of 550.  I think everyone was mellow and acceptant of their lives.  At our reunion ten years ago, we were in our late 60s and hadn’t really come to grips with our places in life.  Now, in our late 70s, we have relaxed into reality and accepted what we are. 

 

We saw a video highlighting the songs and movies we loved back in 1963 and the places we hung out.  One place we hung out was a burger joint named Steak ‘n Shake.  Actually, it was to Steak ‘n Shake that I took my future wife on our first date, Steak ‘n Shake and bowling.  Do you believe that?  And she still married me.  I know everybody thinks that Carol is little and doesn’t eat much.  You could not be more wrong if you had purchased an Edsel.  Usually, at Steak ‘n Shake, Carol would order a triple (that’s right, my friends, a triple) cheeseburger and a large order of fries.  Entire villages in the Sudan have existed for months on less than that little toothpick gobbled down.  Plus, she can chow down a steakburger faster than Bill Clinton can unzip.

 

The video also included a sad list of all the classmates we have lost in 60 years.  The evening was all very nostalgic.  Plus, I added some new readers to my blog.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish (The Comedy of Errors).  For all you new readers, I am Shakespeare, the three-legged cat.  Welcome to my blog.  Pops thinks it’s his blog, but we all know that the reason people come back every week is to hear me.  I’ll even write the limerick this week.  Mine are better than his.

 

                   There once was a boy from U. City

                   Who married a girl who was pretty

                   They live in St. Loo

                   And I live there too

                   I’m Shakespeare, the three-legged kitty.

Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Enough of the cat!  I hope you’re feeling well and staying away from doctors.  Leonardo da Vinci (remember him? Class of 1470). Leo said, “You will the better succeed in proportion as you keep clear of the physicians.”  Leo’s English was a little strange.  He probably didn’t have Mrs. Gottlieb.

 

My physicians are just itching to cut open my neck and diddle with my parathyroid glands.  Nobody looks forward to an operation.  I have had my share: a hip, open heart, 10 eye operations.  Or is it eleven?  Here are some thoughts.

 

·        It’s so cold in an operating room even Joy Behar would hug Donald Trump to stay warm.

·        I’m not a big fan of hospital gowns.  I really do not like when my rear is clear, my butt isn’t shut, my derriere is in the air and my caboose is loose.  You get the picture?  Sorry!

·        And catheters, God?  Seriously?   Please, the next time You’re in a creative mood, try making a world without catheters, mosquitoes, kale and Presidential Debates.  But keep the Cherry Jell-O.  One of Your best things.

 

I recently read an article in which the author made a snide comment about doctors.  It said, “49 % of doctors were in the bottom half of their class.”  Now, what manner of mathematical moron, what nature of numerical numbskull, what denizen of the depths of digital dumbness thinks that the bottom half is 49%?  If the bottom half is 49%, then the top half is 49% and that adds up to 98%.  Where are the other 2% of the class, in Congress?

 

Each one of our political parties has it’s lunatic wing.  Sometimes, they are so bizarrely stupid that it’s comical and frightening at the same time.  If the Right isn’t massing to attack the Capitol, then the Left is steadily sliding down the slippery slope of silliness.  In recent days, they have vowed, if elected, to eliminate cows, straws and carbon.

 

They want to eliminate cows because cows fart and besides, it’s cruel to eat them.  They want to eliminate straws because, well, just because.  I’m not sure they know.  The Zoo does not allow straws because we have lost a couple of animals who have choked on straws that have blown into their habitats, so I agree with them on that one.  Now, they just want to eliminate people.  The world is overpopulated, they say, and we have to reduce the population because people eat cows and the more people we have, the more cows we have and cows fart.  And what are they going to do with all the straws they make illegal?  I have a suggestion.  Send them all to Washington, D.C.  Most of the people there suck anyway.

 

Sorry about the rant.  I do that once in a while.  Let’s lighten up and do our Weekly Word.  Denizen is a good word.  It means an inhabitant or occupant of a particular place.

 

Okay, Weekly Word – check.  Limerick – check.  Message from that stupid cat – check.  A few laughs – check.  I guess we’re done here.  Stay well, count your blessings and enjoy the Jewish high holidays.  See you next week.  Don’t be late.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #339                      September 7, 2023

 

I went to see Dr. Skin for my semi-annual or biannual or twice a year checkup.  Although the internet says all of those phrases can be used interchangeably, I like “semi-annual”.  I brought a map.  I always print out a crime-scene outline of my young and glorious body marked with the locations of all the scabs, sores, scales, scars, flaws, mange and encrustations that make it look old and poorly used.  That way I make sure she checks everything out.  The first person to enter the exam room was a young lady doctor.  “You can call me Neena,” she said, “because no-one can pronounce my last name.”  I put on my glasses and asked her to come closer so I could see her nametag.  I won’t share her last name, but I proceeded to pronounce it perfectly, which shocked her.  “No-one in the U.S. has ever pronounced it right before,” she said.  Then I asked, “Do you want me to tell you where you’re from?”  She looked skeptical, but said sure.  Well, I said, your accent tells me West Africa and your name sounds Nigerian.  She was astonished.  She looked at me like I was Nelson Mandela, Albert Schweitzer and Elvis Presley all rolled into one. It wasn’t a trick, just a combination of having a good ear, a better than average knowledge of geography and enough reading of adventure books to recognize a Nigerian name.  She was impressed by my perspicacity.

 

Let’s make perspicacity our Weekly Word.  It means acuteness of perception or understanding.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Here’s some advice.  If you want to be encouraged by humanity, go to the Zoo, any zoo.  People are smiling, holding their children’s hands, marveling at the huge tortoises groaning and grunting loudly, and looking for nothing more than a happy, fun day. I never volunteer the information that the male tortoises grunt only when they are mounted upon the females and doing their best to make little tortoises.  One time, a little girl asked me what the noises were. I told her that the Mommy and Daddy were just having an argument.  The kid looked at me, looked at her parents, then she looked at me again and gave me an understanding nod.  Tortoises are reptiles, of course, and I have never seen a male tortoise having any problems impregnating the females.  I guess they don’t suffer from Reptile Dysfunction.  Ok, I’ll pause while you groan.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  That’s a fair thought, to lie between maids’ legs (Hamlet). I wouldn’t know anything about all that sex stuff.  When they cut off my broken leg, they took away some other parts as well.  But, believe me, whatever I have left is glorious.  Purr.

 

On the other hand, if you want to see all the worst that humanity has to offer, just get in your car and drive somewhere.  Drivers are selfish, reckless, mean, insulting, stupid and aggressive bullies.  Yes, you know who you are.  No, I’m sure none of you is a bad driver, but you all know I’m right.  Or, if you’re looking for the underbelly of society, just order something from Amazon and have it stolen.  I ordered a pair of sandals.  It was delivered; they even sent me a picture showing the package in the mail area.  I went to get it.  No package.  I contacted Amazon, and, after waiting 48 hours, they replaced the sandals.  It’s not really an interesting story, but you’ll like the limerick.

 

In one of life’s commonest scandals

My package was stolen by vandals

So I got back on line

And it all turned out fine

When Amazon sent me new sandals.

 

Carol and I had a quiet Labor Day with some friends.  I like quiet.  I remember a Labor Day a few years ago when we went to a big party.  Forty people, my age, big room, buffet.  I looked around and noticed that all the men – bald or grey, sitting down – were talking about sports, the stock market and cars.  I hate talking about cars.  My car is thirteen years old.  It runs great and never gives me problems.  I’m comfortable in it and know how to work most of it.  But many of my friends must not like their cars.  They get a new one every time Trump gets indicted.  Each year or two they show up in a shiny new number that has dozens of new features that they will never learn how to work before they trade it in for a new one.  I was in one the other day with my friend, and he didn’t know how to shift from Drive to Reverse, couldn’t get the Blue Tooth to work and could not manage to get the temperature of the right side of the car within 30 degrees of the left side of the car.  Plus, the only thing he could get on the radio was Rosemary Clooney singing C’mon A My House.  I hope my car and I last forever, but if it goes before me, I’m getting another thirteen-year-old model.

 

Back to the party.  All the girls were on their own side of the room, huddled together talking about whatever girls talk about.  It reminded me of a junior-high-school dance.

 

At every party there are two kinds of people – those who want to go home and those who don’t.  The trouble is, they are usually married to each other.  Ann Landers

 

And what do all these girls talk about when they gather in their noisy little flock?   Michelangelo?  No, they Gossip!  I recently read a scientific article that claims gossiping is an essential element of our social fabric.  Chimpanzees gossip, the article claims, in order to learn which members of the troop are trustworthy, friendly or social-climbing.  Isn’t that what you women are doing?  So keep it up, all you little monkeys, and try not to leave banana skins on the floor.  Yes, I know chimpanzees are not monkeys, but if I called my wife an ape. I’d need my other hip replaced.  And my tongue.

 

Well, time to say adios.  Stay well, count your blessings and don’t call your Honey an ape.  That way, you’ll be able to come back next week.  I might have something funny to say.

 

J. Fred Muggs                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com