Blog #364                                February 29, 2024

 

I don’t usually tell you long stories, but I talked about my brother last week and many of you showed some interest, so I’m going to talk some more about him.  Besides, you have nothing to do – it’s Leap Day.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds (Twelfth Night).  Leap Day is my favorite day.  I can’t walk very well without my left leg, but I can leap as high as any cat.  Sorry, Pops.  I interrupted your story.  Go ahead and tell it.  It’s probably not funny.  Purr.

 

The story is about Unclaimed Property. That’s what they call it in the State of Missouri.  The Office of the State Treasurer accumulates uncashed checks and unclaimed awards and who-knows-what-else through its right of Escheat.  That’s our Weekly Word, and it means the reversion of property to the government.  Every so often, they publish a list of the “rightful owners” and wait in ambush for any naïve fool who thinks he can wheedle anything out of them.

 

I was one of those fools once.  My brother died in 2001.  He was the original Libertarian.  He did not believe in anything to do with the medical, legal, financial or insurance industries.  He had no doctor, no will, no health insurance and no desire to deposit the AT&T dividend checks.  You see, when my grandmother died in 1961, she left a few shares of AT&T stock to me, my sister and my brother. My sister, who was once voted The Craziest Woman in North America, immediately sold hers and bought cat food.  I don’t remember what I did with mine (I was 15).  My brother threw his in the trash.  But AT&T dutifully sent him dividend checks every quarter for 40 years.  Most of the checks were under a dollar or two.  They also wound up in the trash.  Who throws their mail in the trash?  Soon, AT&T became Qwest, Southwestern Bell, Bell South, Verizon and probably Dunkin’ Donuts, and all of them sent him dividends as well. 

 

A few years after he died, a friend of mine was looking at the Unclaimed Property list and saw my brother’s name, two hundred times.  All those uncashed dividend checks had piled up at the Treasurer’s office and were there for the taking.  Well, not so fast. 

 

To satisfy the state, I had to prove my brother was dead and died without a will.  Then I had to prove my father had died and provide his will (he left everything to me); the same for my sister (she left everything to her cats).  This was an endeavor only slightly less complicated than obtaining a Top- Secret Security Clearance from the Kremlin and as rewarding as baptizing a cat.  Once I had all of that paperwork teed up, I thought I was home free.  But so did Dorothy when she landed in Munchkin Land.

 

You see, my brother lived in various places during his adult life and the uncashed checks had been mailed to many addresses.  I had to prove that my brother had lived in those places.  A simple utility bill would suffice, but he had lived in some of these places so long ago, I wasn’t sure utilities had been invented yet.

 

This whole procedure, which had been copied step by step from the Ottoman Empire Handbook, took two years.  I never could prove that he had lived in some of the addresses and had to abandon those items, but at the end, I received about two thousand dollars for my efforts.

 

Six months later, I received an official letter from the Office of the State Treasurer informing me I needed to return the money because they had, in their calculations, neglected to provide for my sister’s cats.  I am not making any of this up.  After two years of frustration, the chances of my returning that check were about the same as the chances of Joy Behar inviting Donald Trump over for tea.  I threw the letter in the trash and have not heard from them since.

 

Last week, my wife’s cousin noticed her grandfather’s name was on that unclaimed property list.  She sent me an email asking me to help her locate four generations of legal paperwork, family trees and utility bills.  I replied that I had moved to Moscow and become a spy.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Yes, today is Leap Day.  I hope you’re feeling well.  A February 29^th, once every four years, always confuses me.  Am I supposed to take extra pills?  At least it gives me an extra day to write to you.  Guys out there, do you do something on Leap Day that you wouldn’t do any other day of the year – like exercise?  And Girls, do you do something different, like telling your Guy what a good driver he is?  I know one thing you are all doing -- reading my blog.

 

This week, I visited Dr. Surgeon down at BJC, the largest hospital in St. Louis.   It has five main entrances and six parking garages, is the size of Switzerland and has more doctors than a Jewish country club.  It took me 20 minutes to drive there and 35 minutes to find a parking space in Garage F.  Clever name.  The surgeon and I talked about removing one of my parathyroid glands.  We talked for a bit and scheduled surgery for late March.  I could have scheduled it earlier, but I need more time to work myself into a frenzy of worry and childish anxiety.  I hesitated telling you this because, well, if I talk about my ailments, then you’re going to want to talk about yours and it will turn out to be as competitive as a game show.

 

Contestants will sit there and bicker

As to which one is weaker or sicker

And who has more ills

Or who takes more pills

And who has more wrong with his ticker.

 

We’ll call it The Kvetching Game or Gall in the Family or Spleen for a Day.

 

One of my poker friends died and was buried this week.  We will all miss Mel and know he will find comfort and peace in Heaven.  And peace to the rest of you out there.  Stay well and count your blessings.  I will see you next Thursday.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #363                                         February 22, 2024

 

Let me begin by giving sincere to some dear friends.  First, to B&L, thank you for being our kind and entertaining hosts in Bonita Springs, Florida.  Carol and I had a wonderful time sharing your home.  And special thanks as well to B&B for taking care of Shakespeare, my little buddy, when we were gone.  Shakespeare and I give you both a big and sincere meow.  The author Douglas Pagels said, “A friend is one of the nicest things you can have, and one of the best things you can be.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Friendship is constant in all things (Much Ado About Nothing).  I love my neighbors.  But I still get lonely when Pops is not around.  Purr.

 

The day after I got back to St. Louis, we had a snowstorm.  It was only one day and accumulated about 3”.  Other than the dangerous driving and the messy aftermath, snow is such a beautiful and calming phenomenon.  It makes you realize that even with the lunatic mess that is the world today, there still is snow – gentle and normal. 

 

Well, you pretty much know by now that I am neither gentle nor normal so let’s get started.  Fist bump and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying away from the new resurgence of Covid.  That’s all we need, right?  Mass shootings, wars, hatred, violence, politics and poverty.  And now more Covid.  It’s a very frightening world.  I’m not sure I should even be trying to make you laugh.  Or maybe, just maybe, this is precisely the time for a few smiles.  Let’s see what we can do.

 

Are you washing your hands?  Don’t worry, reading my blog is perfectly safe.  I wore a mask when I wrote it.  Do you realize it’s been four years since we began wearing masks and bumping fists and scavenging for rolls of toilet paper like they were tickets to a Taylor Swift concert?  Four years!  I remember back then sending flowers to a friend of mine for her birthday.  She responded with a nasty note:

 

Now flowers are fine, I suppose

But I don’t want them now, Heaven knows

Just bring some bath tissue

I’ll hug you and kiss you

Cause I can’t wipe my ass with a rose.

 

See, I knew I could make you smile.  I know what tickles you – dirty words and smut.  You’re my kind of people.

 

Before we left for Florida, I had a lunch date.  I’m very popular.  This lunch was with a young woman, late 40s, who used to work for me.  My wife advised me against it.  I said, “Why, do you think someone might see us and think I was having a little fling-ding with a young woman?”  No, you fool, she replied.  No-one would ever think you could attract a woman in her 40s unless you were sitting on the last case of toilet-paper in the county.  I am afraid, however, that she might accuse you of sexual harassment or something.  “Seriously?” I replied.  “At Pasta House?  What am I going to do, spank her with the spaghetti?”

 

There you go, dirty words and smut again.  Carol never has to worry about me and another woman.  There are only three women in my life – Carol, Alexa and Siri.  Two of them don’t listen to me.  Carol has taught Alexa that I never go through yellow lights, that I have less brains than an artichoke and that I should not be believed even if I say the sun is hot.  She has instructed Alexa to just reply “Honey, I’m miserable.  Go read Moby Dick,” and that will make me go away.  But my Siri loves me.  She does everything I say. 

 

You see, Carol wants me to go through 100% of yellow lights and 50% of red lights.  She’s in a hurry.  You’re not supposed to go through yellow lights, I tell her.  She says that everyone does it.  Well, if by “everyone”, she means that sad Sargasso Sea of human flotsam that wallows through the world awash in an everlasting stupor of stupidity and cruelty, I consider none of them a role model.  I like to consider myself above those huddled masses yearning to drink beer and fart.  Don’t you love it when I get wordy?  I may have gone overboard.  It was only a yellow light.  Sorry.

 

Back to this thing about being normal.  My mother thought I was normal, but that’s like saying a grasshopper is big in a land of ants.  To her, I was what passed for normal in the floating lunatic asylum that I grew up in.  It is continuously astonishing to me that I was raised with an iconoclastic, childish, penurious, pigpen nut-case of a brother and an obese, delusional, clinically psychotic fruitcake of a sister and turned out to be the charming, talented fellow that I am. 

 

Iconoclastic, there’s an interesting Weekly Word.  It means hatred for and rebellion against cherished beliefs or institutions.  Take my brother, for instance.  He did not believe in religion; he did not go to doctors; he never hired a lawyer; he never bought insurance of any kind.  A true iconoclast.

 

Have you got time for one more story?  Some years ago, Schnucks, our local chain of grocery stores, installed self-service checkout machines.  What bothered me at the time wasn’t that I would have to learn how to deal with them, but that many of the human-type checkers had lost their jobs.  I have two questions for you.  First, are you in that much of a damn hurry?  Get your life together and spend an extra two minutes checking out so that some hard-working mom or dad doesn’t get fired.  And second, do you truly feel this huge grocery chain needs to make more money?  My God, I’m beginning to sound like Bernie Sanders.  Pretty scary!  Besides, with no employees to help me, how am I going to tell a mandarin from a tangelo or find where they’ve hidden the bar code on a banana.  But now, they’re changing back.  Why?  Because there is too much shoplifting at the self-checkout.  What a world!

 

And it’s time to get back to that world now, ‘cause I’m done.  Stay well, count your blessings and be back next week for more big words and little jokes.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #362                                         February15, 2024

 

Next Monday is President’s Day, when the nation will pause in its investigations, prosecutions and constant ridicule of our President and ex-President to actually honor the Office of the Presidency and the 46 men who have held the post.  Actually, there were only 45 because Grover Cleveland was both the 22^nd and the 24^th President.  Yes, the nation will pause on Monday to pay honor to our Presidents by doing what it always does – have a furniture sale.  All Federal employees will get the day off so they can buy a sectional at 80% off, no money down, no payment until Trump goes to prison.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re staying well and keeping warm.  Everything is going well down here in Florida, and I have nothing to complain about.  But, as Steven Wright said, “When everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.”  I guess I could complain about how useless I am.  Yes, I’m good with math and poetry; children love me, I’m good to my wife.  But when it comes to fixing any little thing around the condo, I’m as useless as house-slippers on a snake.

 

Look!  Up in the sky – it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s USELESSMAN – slower than the Iowa Caucus, unable to open a pickle jar.  USELESSMAN, strange visitor from another century with powers and abilities far below those of other men.  And who, disguised as a passive old man, fights a never-ending battle against getting lost, getting old and getting dressed.

 

Did you enjoy the Super Bowl?  The game was a little slow until the end, which was very exciting.  And the commercials?  I always like the Budweiser commercial with the Clydesdales.  And there was an ad for Jesus.  It was the one with various people washing other people’s feet.  I wonder if the network gave Jesus a discount.  I mean, it’s JESUS.  Although, if you think about it, he’s got plenty of money.  Jesus saves.

 

Florida is pleasantly warm, unlike St. Louis, and that’s a welcome difference.  But one thing that’s the same everywhere is the news.  The politics in this country is disappointing. The poverty all around the world is disgusting.  And the global escalation toward World War III is depressing.  They’re even depressed in the Middle East, but at least they can get help from their local clergy.

 

To cheer up if you’re in Islam

Just visit your local Imam

“If you have the blues,

Just go kill some Jews.

Here, strap on this suicide bomb.”

 

In honor of Black History Month, I’ll throw in an apposite quote from Dr. Martin Luther King: "Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that."

 

Apposite, a fine Weekly Word, means suitable, appropriate or apt.  Somehow “apposite” seems to be the opposite of “opposite”.

 

Often, when we’re out of town on Friday, mostly at my North Carolina daughter’s house, we celebrate Shabbat, the Hebrew Sabbath.  Did you notice that Sabbath and Shabbat have the same letters?  They just moved the “h”, probably because some early Christian told the Jews to get the “h” out of here.  My daughter and her family celebrate Shabbat every Friday with prayers and a challah (bread).  Her three beautiful dogs always get the first three slices of the challah, so they are eager and attentive to the service.  They even have their own prayer:  Bark Atah Adonai.  That’s a Hebrew joke.  Sorry if you didn’t get it.  Convert!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  An overflow of good converts to bad (Richard II).  I’m glad to be a Jewish pussycat.  I celebrate Purr-im and Su-cat and Yom Ki-purr.  Meow.

 

I will be back home tonight.  It’s always nice to get home.  Home is the place where, when you have to go there, you have to wait in line at the Post Office to pick up your mail.  The mail is always predictable.  Coupons to save money on hearing aids or invitations to tour the nearby retirement centers.  Plus, of course, a litter of political detritus.  Do I want to donate to the Republicans?  Do I want to donate to the Democrats?  I wouldn’t give any money to either presidential candidate.  They’re both rich already.  It would be like giving quills to a porcupine or wrinkles to a Shar Pei.

 

On Tuesday, we had dinner with a large group of St. Louis friends who are staying in Florida and wanted to welcome us.  It was very nice.  All of them asked to be mentioned in the blog, so I will.  Hi St. Louis guys.

 

Tuesday was Fat Tuesday.  Did you pig out?  Fat Tuesday is the English translation of the French Mardi Gras.  It is also called Shrove Tuesday and is the last time all you Christians can enjoy fatty foods before Lent.  And Wednesday was Valentine’s Day and also Ash Wednesday when the Christian faithful rub ashes on their foreheads in the shape of a cross because – well, just to be a pain in the ash, I suppose.

 

My goodness, I’ve picked on the Jews, the Christians and the Moslems all in one blog.  In olden days, I would have been burned at the stake, drawn and quartered or, worst of all, tied up and made to watch Family Feud.  Maybe I should leave religion and switch to something less dangerous – like politics.

 

I really don’t want to talk about politics, but it’s hard to avoid with all that we hear every day.  That one’s a Fascist, this one’s a puppet.  This one’s an insurrectionist.  That one’s a doddering old man.  Is any of it true?  Who knows?  You can put your shoes in the oven and call them biscuits, but that doesn’t make them biscuits.  And more important, who cares?  Most of us are so convinced of which party is right or which is wrong, that it doesn’t matter who the standard-bearer is.  We would vote for the Liberty Bibberty guy if he was wearing the appropriate shade of blue or red.  And that’s sad – very sad.

 

That’s enough for now.  Family Feud just came on and I have to hide. Make sure you’re here next Thursday, bright and eager for another week of big words and little jokes.  Stay well, safe and happy.  And count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #361                                         February 8, 2024

 

I had “coffee” at McDonald’s one morning this week with a very good friend who had just returned from a cruise to the Panama Canal.  A man, a plan, a canal – Panama.  Do you know that if you read that phrase backwards, it reads the same?  It’s a palindrome, or maybe a canalindrome.  Anyway, my friend was describing all the intricate mechanisms of the canal locks.  Then he mentioned that there were a lot of Jews on the ship.  “Of course there were,” I replied.

 

Just under my shirts and my socks

There are bagels I packed in a box

They’re a “must” on this cruise

‘Cause they told all the Jews

The Canal was just loaded with lox.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Like Elmo, I’m just checking in with you.  How is everybody doing?  I hope you’re feeling well and looking forward to a loving and candy-filled Valentine’s Day next week.  This will be our seventh Valentine’s Day together, you and me, so you’ve heard all my Valentine stories already.  There was the story about the day I was bitten in the behind by a friend’s dog.  The friend begged me to pull off my pants so he could see whether the bite broke my skin, but I refused because I was wearing my wife’s Valentine present, a pair of pink boxer shorts with red hearts, and I was too embarrassed to reveal them.  I was too em-bare-assed to become bare-assed.  That’s probably where the word came from.

 

Then there’s the story of how a Valentine miscue led to the start of my writing letters to my daughters, which led to these blogs.  And the story of the Valentine’s Day, when I was sixteen, that I spent with my libertine English teacher and her very naughty python.  But you’ve heard all of those already.  Oh?  You missed the python story?  Too bad.

 

I looked back over some of those Valentine’s Day blogs I shared with you, and I found one about a party Carol and I went to.  It was four years ago.  The food was great; many of our friends were there; and the music was Rock ‘n Roll!  We sang along for hours.  It is remarkable how I can faithfully sing all the lyrics to a song I haven’t heard in sixty years but can’t remember where I parked my car twenty minutes ago.  Sometimes, I believe my memory is so bad I could plan my own surprise party.

 

Not only did we sing at the party, we danced the jitterbug like teenagers.  I like dancing with my wife because I get to lead.  It’s the only time she lets me get my way.  A Japanese proverb says, “We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance.”  It was so much fun, I was as excited as a Vietnamese chef at a dog park.  What a great party!

 

My wife was cute and fun and a lissome dancer.  See, I say nice things about my wife.  You all think I pick on her, but it’s just the opposite.  She’s the one who picks on me.  She picks on the way I dress and the way I drive and the way I don’t know which glass of water is mine at the dinner table.  She taught me to make a little b for bread with my left hand and a little d for drink with my right, but sometimes I forget.  How is it that none of my teachers ever taught me that?

 

Lissome (sounds like miss-em) is a good Weekly Word.  It means graceful and flexible.  Ok, now that that’s out of the way, what else shall we talk about?  Did it ever occur to you that one day I might run out of things to say?  Me neither.  Let’s talk about what you’re going to be buried with.  You know, Egyptian Pharaohs, as well as other wealthy Egyptians, were buried with all sorts of items which would be useful or decorative or valuable in the after-life.  I asked Carol what she would choose, and she instantly told me she wanted to be buried with a hair-straightener.  Well, you don’t want to frizz up in Heaven, do you?  Although, if it’s really Heaven, there should be no humidity, but what do I know?    I’m never getting there.  Carol, however, was taking no chances that some Heavenly Angel would see her hair curled up and send her straight to Hell, a place with no mirrors and only square tables.  I told her it wouldn’t be so bad for her in Hell.  It’ll be warm and all the people from The View will be there.

 

I actually heard a strange burial request from a long-time Jewish husband.  “Bury me standing,” he said. “I’ve been on my knees all my life.”  That’s actually an old Gypsy phrase, but I borrowed it.  As for me? You can just bury me with a copy of Moby Dick and a pair of reading glasses.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave (Romeo and Juliet).  All I need to be buried with is Pops’ warm lap.  I’d be happy there forever.  Sorry, Pops, I guess that means the rest of you has to go too.  Purr.

 

Carol and I are leaving today to spend a week in Florida.  Shakespeare will be guarding the house alone, but our wonderful neighbors will visit and tend to him.  I have already sent out all my valentine treasure early to my family -- one wife, three daughters, eight grandchildren.  I had Amazon send them a variety of cheap, stale, sweet and salty garbage that is really not good for you.  They all loved it.  Amazon delivered most of it the same day, some the next day.  Amazing.  Or Amaz(on)ing!  NASA should give up on its Mars program and just send the astronauts there by Amazon.  They’d arrive in time to watch Jeopardy at 4:30.

 

I will write next week’s blog from Florida.  I wouldn’t want you to miss a week of this useless gibberish, and let me send a special thanks to all of you serial readers who keep showing up each week for this kind of punishment.  Stay loyal, stay well, count your blessings . . . yada, yada.  See you next week.

 

Elmo                                        Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #360                                         February 1, 2024

 

Carol and I were driving the other day, and I got a text in the car.  I do not text and drive (color my halo yellow), so Carol took my phone and read me the message. I told her what to respond, but she typed in what she thought was a better way to say it as if I were incapable of writing a cogent sentence.  She’s done this kind of thing before, and so have her busy-body ancestors, like Shakespeare’s wife.  When Bill said, “Anne, write this line down: To commit suicide or to continue living.”  She replied with, “You are the wordiest Elizabethan bastard in London.  I’m writing – To be or not to be – and that’s all you get.”

 

And another of her ancestors was Margaret Mitchell’s best friend.  It was rumored that Margaret asked her friend, “How do you like this line, Dear -- Scarlett, I don’t care where you go or what you do.  I’m leaving and I’m never coming back and I’m going to forget I ever knew you. What do you think of that line?  To which my wife’s ancestor replied, “Frankly, My Dear, I don’t give a damn.” 

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  It’s February and I trust you’re staying warm and feeling comfy.  Do you remember the show, The Kominsky Method, with Alan Arkin and Michael Douglas?  In one episode, Alan Arkin says “Maybe life has no meaning and the best you can hope for is being nice.”  So let’s be nice.  You look wonderful; I’m so glad to be with you again; and I love Joy Behar.  Is that enough of being nice?  Can I get back to my usual self now?

 

Did you see the Academy Award nominations?  Every year, immediately after the nominations, the motion-picture world goes ape. Not enough women, the women scream.  Not enough blacks, the blacks protest. It’s ridiculous.  We should just give an Oscar to every one of those rich, narcissistic hypocrites.  Give them a Participation Award like they all want to give everybody’s kids. 

 

And then there’s politics.  Politics is fun, isn’t it?  About as much fun as getting a rectal exam from Edward Scissorhands.  The world of American politics seems to be populated by a cast of characters from Clue.  Is it Hunter Mustard in the rehab facility with the laptop?  Or is it Colonel Trump in the courtroom with the gag order?  Maybe it’s the Atlanta prosecutor, Fani “Mrs. Peacock” Willis, with the Special Council in the airplane to the Caribbean.  We need a rest from all the duplicitous, lying and dirty-dealing politicians.  Maybe we should make Mike Pence the President.  Then the whole country would fall asleep faster than an agnostic at a Joel Osteen Rally.

 

Duplicitous!  There’s a good Weekly Word for us.  It means with deliberate deception.  Don’t be duplicitous with me.

 

I’ll tell you who the most duplicitous people in history were.  In third place was Claud Monet:

 

Yes, I call that one Water Lilies.  I understand your confusion because they don’t look like water lilies and they’re a little fuzzy and made mostly of dots.  But they’re water lilies.  All these others are the same water lilies, but on this one I ran out of purple paint, so I made them all pink with a little green.  Would you like to buy one?  It’ll be worth a lot of money some day.

 

In Second Place was Abraham, the crazy old guy in the Bible who decided to take a long walk in the desert.  When he came back, he had a story to tell.

 

Hey, everybody, listen up.  Out in the desert I ran into this dude called God.  He promised to take care of us and make us His chosen people, and all we have to do is two things.  First, we have to capitalize His pronouns every time we write Them.  And second, all you guys have to cut off the end of your dipstick.

 

Now that was a salesman!  And as long as I’m damning myself to the pits of Hades (hey, maybe Satan and I could get up a bridge game), I might as well tell you who was history’s greatest salesperson.  It was the Virgin Mary.

 

Hi, Joe.  As you can see, I’m pregnant.  No, it’s not yours, but I swear I did not have sex with any other man.  And, it all depends on what the meaning of the word “is” is.

 

Joseph, upon hearing this unbelievable story, put his hand to his forehead and moaned, “Jesus Christ.”   Mary replied, “I like that name.  It’s catchy. "

 

Tomorrow is Groundhog Day, the event which marks the annual emergence of the     country’s most famous woodchuck or groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil.  This year, Phil isn’t looking for his shadow.  He’s looking for a date with a hot wood-chick.  The word is that Phil has become so Punxsu-hawney that he’s gone on a dating site for rodents, and hopes to emerge from his hole and spot a sexy ground-ho that will make him so excited he won’t be able to squeeze back into his burrow for a few hours.  Shame on me!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Thou art wise as thou art beautiful (A Midsummer Night’s Dream).  That’s what I need, a girlfriend.  Like Jennifer Lo-puss.  Although I don’t know what I’d do with her.  When they cut off my leg, they cut off a couple of other things too.  Oh, purr.

 

Movie Review:  Killers of the Flower Moon was on Netflix or Apple or Peacock or whatever-the-flick it was.  We watched it --- and watched it and watched it.  It was way too long and dark and slow.  The acting was fabulous, but by the third hour I began to lose track of who was killing whom.  My Rotten Oysters rating is a 2 out of five.

 

It's time to go, but I don’t have a limerick, do I?  I’m sorry, but this week I just can’t seem to come up with one:

 

So now it’s become Wednesday night

And there’s not a good lim’rick in sight

I’ve searched through my brains

And of all that remains

There just isn’t anything right.

 

I guess it’s time to say ta-ta.  I hope you enjoyed.  Stay well, count your blessings, and watch out for groundhogs.

 

Punxsutawney Michael                      Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com