Blog #377                                May 30, 2024

 

Recently, HBO, which airs a Looney Tunes show, has banned Elmer Fudd from using a hunting rifle.  This cancel culture is pernicious.  But now they’re messing with my Looney Tunes and I’m not going to take it anymore!  And that’s not all they’ve changed:

 

·        Sylvester can no longer chase Tweety Bird.  After all, Yellow Lives Matter.

·        Stuttering is making fun of the handicapped, so Porky Pig now sounds like Morgan Freeman

·        Speedy Gonzalez is gone.  Racially insensitive!

·        Bugs Bunny has been forced to say, “Ahhh, what’s up, Dr. Jill Biden?”

·        And, of course. they’ve taken away Popeye’s pipe.

 

Popeye cannot have his smokes

I’m telling you these are not jokes

They took Elmer’s gun

And all of our fun

And th-th-th-that’s all F-Folks.

 

I had a limerick about Donald Duck, but my wife wouldn’t let me publish it.  You don’t get it?  Well, you’re built too low, the fast ones go over your head.

 

In my opinion, if we allowed every interest group to destroy everything they find offensive, there would be nothing and nobody left in this country.  Just think:

 

Native Americans would get rid of Eskimo Pies, statues of George Custer, and the Kansas City Chiefs.

 

Blacks would get rid of the Confederate Flag, Mount Rushmore, and Hattie McDaniel.

 

Jews would eliminate the KKK, statues of Charles Lindbergh, and whoever said we couldn’t eat bacon.

 

 

Hispanics would get rid of The Wall, statues of Christopher Columbus and Speedy Gonzalez cartoons.

 

Rednecks would get rid of Blacks, Jews, Native Americans, Hispanics and people who have abortions.

 

And just about everybody would get rid of robocalls, cicadas and Joy Behar.  See my point?  If everyone was allowed to eliminate whatever he or she perceived as offensive, the world would be as empty as Lady Godiva’s closet.

 

Hi there friends, and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  Every time I pick on Joy Behar, I get angry comments from those of you who are Joy fans.  So yes, I know everyone does not hate Joy.  But I’m sticking with the robocalls and cicadas.  This week, we celebrated Memorial Day.  For those of you who served, thank you and thank you again.

 

Memorial Day means baseball and apple pie.  I’ve been a St. Louis Cardinal fan all my life, and even though they’re having a disappointing year and even though watching baseball is as slow as watching a centipede tie his shoes, I’m still a fan.  I went to a game this week.  The seats were great; the hotdogs were delicious and we won.  But the main feeling I came away with was that a baseball game is the quintessential exposition of greed and avarice in America. 

 

·        The tickets are expensive

·        The parking was $40, triple the price of parking on a day when there is no game

·        The cost of food is easily twice what it should be

·        A beer is up to $15.

·        A baseball, soiled by mud because the pitch hit the dirt, is packaged in a plastic box and sold in the souvenir shop for $50.  FIFTY DOLLARS!

·        A jersey worn by a player last week will be sold for $500 - $1500, depending on the player.

 

The cost for a grandfather to take two grandchildren to a game – decent seats, hotdogs, ice-cream, maybe a Cardinals hat will be $400 to $600.  Nuts.

 

My grandson, Tyler, graduated high school last week.  I always get emotional at graduations.  The unbridled joy of the students, the uncontrollable pride of the families, the Pomp and Circumstance – it all gives me goose bumps.  I was very proud of my grandson.

 

In the car, on the way to the ceremony, I felt something crawling on my neck.  It was a cicada, of course.  They’re everywhere.  They’re more ubiquitous than Palestinian protestors.  I grabbed the little fellow and defenestrated him.  Now there’s a word you need to know.  Defenestrate, our Weekly Word, simply means to throw something or someone out of a window. 

 

Speaking of protestors, one of the students, as he was called to receive his diploma, removed a large Palestinian flag from beneath his robes and displayed it while on the stage and walking back to his seat.  Of course, that was against all the school’s rules, but he did it anyway.  I would have liked to defenestrate him.  Two-four-six-eight, who should we defenestrate?

 

Rotten Oysters:  There’s a comedy special that was on HBO.  You can get it on Demand or maybe hulu or Netflix.  The name is Alex Edelman, Just for Us.  It’s a 90-minute Broadway one-man show, and it’s very Jewish and very funny.  Very funny.  Watch it.  Watch it just because you trust me.  It is unique and entertaining.  I have seen it six times.

 

The weather has been terrifying lately.  We spent two hours the other evening glued to the TV watching the alert broadcast of a monster storm heading our way.  Thunder, lightning, tornados, pictures of Almira Gulch, tennis-ball sized hail.  And besides the weather angst, the country is beset by antisemitism, a porous border, high prices on everything, high interest rates and an election coming up where we get to choose who is going to point us in the right direction and our only choices are Beavis and Butt-Head. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I think the King is but a man, as I am.  The violet smells to him as it doth to me (Henry V).  We should have a cat for President.  I like Garfield.  His motto is “Love me, feed me, never leave me.”  And I have Pops who does exactly that.  Maybe Pops should be President.  No, maybe not.  Purr.

 

If this country gets any worse, the people wading and swimming across the border will be Americans trying to get into Mexico.  I’ve started eating Chalupas every day and am learning to sing La Cucaracha.  I wonder if Mexico will give us Sanctuary Cities and free Driver’s Licenses.  I know they’re ready for us, because my friend Kitty in Mexico sent me a picture of a sign over there.  It reads:  Welcome to the Fun Side of the Wall!  That’s the truth.

 

Ok, my blood-pressure cuff tells me it’s time to stop.  If they let me out of the asylum, I’ll see you next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #376                                         May 23, 2024

 

Carol and I were out to dinner with friends, and we started to talk about when we were younger (when were we not younger?).  And there was some rock ‘n roll music playing and we reminisced about the jitterbug.  I got up, grabbed my wife’s hand and we began to jitterbug.  Nobody in the restaurant applauded.  Of course, other than our group, there were only two guys in the place.  You see, we were at Hardee’s.  Every two weeks, we have Garbage Night.  Each time, we pick a different fast-food restaurant and pig out on delicious, greasy crap.  I liked the idea of dancing so I began to think of other fast-food places where we could dance.

 

·        First, of course, was the Party Hardee Jitterbug we had just performed

·        We could boogie at Boogie King

·        Do the Funky Chick-fil-A

·        Or the Steak ‘n Shake a Tail Feather

·        How about the twist at Auntie Anne’s  (pretzels; get it?)

·        Do some rhythm and blues at Arby’s   (R&B=RB=Arby)

·        The hora at TwoJay’s Deli                   (pretty obvious)

·        The square dance at White Castle        (square burgers)

·        Or the Hokey Pokey at an In-N-Out Burger (you might have to think about that one)

Message from Shakespeare:  For you and I are past our dancing days (Romeo and Juliet).  I wish I could dance with Pops.  I like Hip-Hop, but with my three legs, I can only do the Hop.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  It’s the season for graduations – high schools, colleges, law schools, even confirmation classes.  This week, my local 16-year-old granddaughter, Charley, graduated with her Confirmation Class from our Temple.  It was a touching and loving ceremony that I enjoyed very much.  Charley looked beautiful; my wife looked beautiful; my daughter looked beautiful.  Even I looked beautiful.  The Rabbi ended the service by acknowledging that we all might be worried about the future in a world teeming with war and hatred and dysfunction, but that we should not worry.  We should instead feel comfort in turning over the world to this dedicated, intelligent and committed group of young people we saw before us.  I hope he’s right.

 

I hope the new generation will put an end to this Defund the Police garbage.  That phrase ranks right up there with, “Let them eat cake” and “Let’s call it an Edsel”.  No police?  Who’s a young woman going to call when her ex-boyfriend is banging on the door threatening to beat the crap out of her?  Benjamin Crump?  Who are you going to call when your car is stolen?  Uber?  If there’s something strange in your neighborhood, who you gonna call?  I’ll bet you know.

 

And the “Cancel Culture” set.  Now, they want to get rid of Rice Krispies because Snap, Crackle and whatshisname are all white.  We can’t have Uncle Ben’s Rice because there’s a black guy on the box and we can’t have Rice Krispies because there are white people on the box.  No Eskimo Pies either.  And Aunt Jemima syrup is now called Pearl Milling.  Jeesh!  When I heard that, I got so over-excited that my pacemaker opened the garage door.

 

And while I’m angry, tell me this: why is there a “d” in fridge but not in refrigerator?

 

We had dinner one night this week with some friends.  We ate outdoors.  The weather was gorgeous; the outdoor patio at the restaurant was delightful; the food and the service were impeccable.  But there was a problem.  Here’s what we ate:

 

A salad of heirloom to-may-tas

Some chicken with garlic po-tay-tas

Then after we ate

They served us a plate

Of choc-o-late covered cicadas.

 

Of course that’s not true.  We did not eat the cicadas, but the rhyme possibilities were irresistible.  We are, however, in a historical cicada outbreak in the Midwest, and the overly-loud, primeval little bastards are everywhere. Well, as I always say, if you can’t beat-em, eat-em.  And yes, the internet is full of cicada recipes.  In an epic stretching of the truth, they say that cicadas are related to lobsters and have a nutty flavor.  I’ll take their word for that, although I have eaten kangaroo, octopus, wart-hog, eland, and ostrich at one time or another.

 

Primeval is a good Weekly Word.  It means from the earliest ages of world history.  Kind of like me.

 

What else happened this week?  Well, we were invited to a preview of a mentalist show put on by the son of a very close friend.  A mentalist does not perform magic tricks.  He makes you concentrate on certain numbers or words and then seems to read your thoughts.  It was a very entertaining show and performed very well.  The mentalist’s name is Rick Silver and he operates out of Atlanta.  I’m sure you can find him on Google.  Did I believe he could read minds?  Did I believe there were no tricks?  That’s not the point.  The point is whether I was entertained.  I was.

 

I’m pretty sure I can read your mind.  Right now, you’re about as depressed as Kristi Noem’s campaign manager and wondering, “When is this old man going to say something funny?”

 

I know something funny – my golf game.  We went out to play last week.  The weather was beautiful, the course was fine, the other couple was fun.  My golf was dreadful.  I can play golf about as well as Lori Loughlin’s daughters can row.  Watching me play golf is like watching a snake trying to knit.  Maybe next time will be better.

 

One of my readers notified me this week that my last blog had been labeled Spam by their email.  It’s happened before.  Now, I have been called many names in my life.  I’ve been called argumentative.  I am definitely not argumentative, and I challenge you to prove it to my face.  I’ve been called repetitive.  I am not repetitive.  I have never been repetitive.  I am not repetitive.  I’m not.  I’ve been called stubborn.  Maybe.  But I have never been called SPAM.  I don’t even know what it stands for – Small Pesky Aggravating Missourian?  Stubborn Poppy’s Argumentative Mail?  Well, even if I am spamish, please come back to me next week.  Meanwhile, stay well, count your blessings and come back to me next week.  Did I say that already?  Maybe I am repetitive.

 

Michael, Michael                               Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #375                                         May 16, 2024

 

I have read a lot of books, over a thousand by now, and of all those books, there are four that keep calling me back.  Every year, I read one of them, and I hope to be able to read them many more times.  The books are:

 

·        Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez, a book as beautiful and quirky as the love affair it describes.

·        Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, the consummate epic adventure of the 20^th Century.

·        Catch 22 by Joseph Heller, an irresistible amalgam of outrageous humor and unbearable sadness.

·        Moby Dick (of course) by Herman Melville, the monumental battle between inherent evil and maniacal revenge.

 

I am not suggesting that you read them.  As Jose Saramago said, “No two paradises are alike,” and I would not expect you to like the same things I do.  2024 is my year to read Love in the Time of Cholera.  I just started and am already once more in love with it.  So nice to have a good book!

 

And so nice to have you here to chat with.  Hi there and welcome back.  Do you watch the news?  Of course you do, and so do I.  The other day, I turned on Lester Holt, and what was the top news item?  Was it the campus riots, where crowds of screaming, maniacal students accompanied by hired thugs continue to terrorize college campuses to show their support for the people who attacked Israel and threw Jewish babies into ovens and cooked them to death?  No, that wasn’t the top story.  Was it the seemingly constant nationwide barrage of catastrophic weather featuring floods and hail and tornados and widespread death and destruction?  Nope, that wasn’t the top story either.  No, the top story wasn’t about hate-storms or thunderstorms; it was about Stormy.  People, I’m not sure we have our priorities straight.

 

And that weather!  It seems like there are severe everything warnings for the whole day, every day.  Rain, lightning, tornados, baseball-sized hail.  It always seems to me that baseball- or grapefruit-sized hail would kill everyone instantly.  The only thing they didn’t predict was the Wicked Witch of the West and flying monkeys.  And poor Shakespeare is afraid of the thunder and the warning sirens.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  And thou, all-shaking thunder, smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world (King Lear).  The noises really frighten me, but I know where to go to feel safe:

 

The siren had raised the alarm

And I thought I was coming to harm

Then the thunder went Boom

And I ran to Pops’ room

And schnuggled up under his arm.

 

Pops always keeps me safe and warm.  I think he does the same for the wife, but she doesn’t purr.  Purr!

 

I received a package from Amazon a few days ago, a big plastic bag.  I wasn’t expecting anything, but the bag had my name on it and who am I to argue with Amazon.  Amazon is the world’s delivery system.  It could deliver astronauts to the moon.  It could, and has, delivered tents to every college campus in America.  It might deliver Donald Trump to prison.  Seriously, if you had to trust me or Amazon, who would you choose?  I chose Amazon and opened the bag.  Inside was a box that contained a large cylinder – about 18 inches tall and three or four inches in diameter.  It was light-weight and looked like a hair roller for Big Foot.  It turned out to be an automobile air filter.  And I knew that because I am an expert on cars?  Of course not; you know better than that.  Books are my bailiwick, not cars.  I wouldn’t know an air filter from a kangaroo.  But the box read, in big letters, AIR FILTER, so I went with that.

 

I called Amazon and explained my confusion.  They were speedy, pleasant and definitive and apologized for their error.  Should I send it back, I asked?  No, they said, just keep it.  Keep it?  I get to keep it, free of charge, no questions asked?  What a boon!  What a serendipitous bonanza!  I felt as lucky as a Palestinian flag salesman in New York.  I could have tried to sell it on eBay or something, but I had a better idea and drove to the repair station that takes care of my cars where I gave it to the owner.  I’m sure he will find some use for it. 

 

Weekly Word:  Bailiwick means the domain in which someone has superior knowledge or authority.  Books are my bailiwick.  Comedy is Jerry Seinfeld’s bailiwick.  Sleaze is Stormy Daniel’s bailiwick.

 

 

 

What else can we talk about?  I’m not ready to let you go yet.  I’ve recently read a book about the future of genetics. It says that within 25 years, doctors will be able to make human egg cells and human sperm cells out of normal blood or skin cells.  And it doesn’t matter whether those cells come from a male or a female.  In other words, a human egg cell can be made from a woman’s skin cell and a human sperm cell can be made from another woman’s skin cell.  Throw the two cells into a test-tube, turn down the lights and play a little Johnny Mathis and pretty soon you have a viable embryo.  You know what that means, girls?  It means you won’t need men any more.  And you know what that means?  No more episodes of The Bachelor.  What would you do without men?  Who would forget to make the bed?  Who would keep you awake with his snoring?  Who would leave the toilet-seat up and expect you to cook for him and do his laundry?  On the other hand, who would drop you at the front door of the restaurant.  And who would buy you candy for your birthday or tell you how beautiful you look in that new blouse or compliment your hair?  And who would love you without regret or exception for the rest of his life?

Ok, now, with those thoughts, I will leave you.  You’ve made it through another blog.  I’m proud of you.   Stay well, count your blessings and come back next Thursday.  And remember what Winston Churchill said:  I’d rather argue against a hundred idiots than have one agree with me

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #374                                          May 9, 2024

 

Did you know that the average American walks 1,400 miles a year?  Did you know that the average American drinks 2.3 gallons of alcohol a year?  That’s over 600 miles per gallon.  And you thought you needed a Prius?

 

Drinking alcohol can be a dangerous habit, as you know.  I’ve had my share of bad habits – drinking, smoking, wearing linen in October, chewing gum.  I still have a piece of gum once in a while, but I gave up chewing in the presence of my wife.  The impetus came one night when I was lying in bed watching a German soccer game (I keep telling you I’m weird) and chewing a piece of Trident Spearmint.  I must admit I was cracking and smacking and making myself thoroughly annoying, when Carol turned her head to the right.  She always sleeps on the same side of the bed.  In every home we have shared and every hotel room, Carol has always slept on the same side – the side nearest the bathroom.  Why do women always have to be close to the bathroom?  Are they expecting to need an emergency eyebrow plucking at three a.m.?  Back to my obnoxious chewing.  She could have said, “If you don’t stop cracking that gum, I’m going to shoot hairspray up your nose.”  She didn’t.  Instead, she sweetly said, “Honey, does it bother you when I crack my gum?”  Well, I gave her maximum style points for that and immediately gave up chewing gum in bed.  See, you can catch more flies with honey than with hairspray.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Are you feeling well?  Feeling strong?  Feeling tall?  When I was a teenager, my parents’ friends would hold their hands down at my waist-level and say, “I knew you when you were this tall.”  Now, sad to say, my friends hold their hands six inches above my head and say the same thing.  I’ve been offered a job standing on the top of wedding cakes.

 

Other than short, however, I am feeling great.  I know you think I have all these health issues, and I do have a few, but I think Carol and I are as well as can be expected for our ages.  Last Saturday, a representative of our health insurance company visited us for a Healthy Home Visit.  The lady took our vitals and asked about our medications.  She concluded I had more pills than an old sweater.  Then she went through a checklist of ailments, and although I said “yes” to many of the items on the checklist, I said “no” to most.  She asked me to memorize three words and then asked me to repeat them later.  I did that, of course, and volunteered to recite all 18 stanzas of The Raven for her.   Hey, getting old is easy.  It’s having fun while you’re doing it that’s the challenge.

 

So let’s have some fun.  How about a cute story?  And it’s totally true.  My oldest grandchild, Zachary, is almost 23 now.  He lives and works in Madison, Wisconsin now, and I am very proud of him.  When he was 14 or so, like many boys that age, he became interested in magic and worked up a little routine of card tricks.  He was pretty good, and his mom suggested he could put on a little show at the nearby senior-living home.  He agreed; the home agreed and off he went.  It didn’t turn out well.  The first card trick he did involved laying out a group of nine cards on the table and asking one of the inmates (I guess “resident” would be a kinder term) to pick a card, but not to tell him what it was.  The nice, elderly lady did, and he proceeded to run through some prestidigitory flim-flam at the end of which he proudly held up a card and asked, “Is this your card?”  The nice lady smiled at him and said, “I’m sorry young man, I’ve forgotten.”  True story.

 

I’ve avoided the issue so far, but I cannot end this blog without addressing the elephant in the room, the protests on college campuses.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy (Troilus and Cressida).  Wait, there’s an elephant in the room?  Is he serious?  I’d better hide.  If I got stepped on, I’d be just a piece of hairy toast.  Is he trying to kill me?  Yesterday, I thought I heard him say he was going to send me to South Dakota. The Governor there needs a new pet.  Purr. 

 

Ok, back to the college protests.  They have saddened me and infuriated me.  I’m glad they are arresting the protestors, at least half of whom apparently are not students at all.  What arrogance, what hubris – to think, at their age, they could possibly know all there is to know.  In The Canterbury Tales, Chaucer says

 

Age has a great advantage over youth

In wisdom and by custom, that’s the truth.

 

What stupidity and disloyalty to pull down American flags and replace them with Palestinian flags.  I’d like to see someone in Gaza pull down a Palestinian flag and raise an American flag.  I wonder what his life expectancy would be.  I have no respect for their tactics, their Kafkaesque beliefs or their lack of understanding.  I’m sorry if any of them are your grandchildren.  I’m sorry if any of them are my grandchildren.

 

I’m going to tell you poetically

That those students are acting pathetically

It makes me irate

That they’re so full of hate

And behaving so antisemitically.

 

I apologize for the limerick.  It’s what I do.  But that’s enough.  Time to ignore me and go on about your day.  Until next Thursday, that is.  Be back then.  Stay well and count your blessings that you live in America.

 

Oh, the Weekly Word is Kafkaesque, which means having a nightmarish, bizarre or illogical quality. Franz Kafka was a Bohemian writer of the early 20^th Century.  He’s the one who wrote a book about a guy waking up to discover that overnight he had been turned into a cockroach, so you can tell what a joy his books were.  See you next week.  And have a Happy Mothers’ Day on Sunday.  My mother died about this time of year in 1995.  Happy Mothers’ Day, Mom.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #373                                May 2, 2024

 

I think I have you all figured out.  Most of the comments I get from you are not about the contents of the blog.  Most are just wishing me a happy birthday or a safe trip or good luck on a surgery.  That’s nice, like one big family.  In a week when no such stimulus exists, I get much fewer comments.  This week, I’m going to Timbuktu to get a brain transplant on my birthday.  Let’s see how many comments that scares up.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope the sunrise has found you where the sunset left you last and you are feeling spiffy and bright.  What’s your favorite day of the week?  Besides Thursday, of course, when Limerick Oyster arrives.  Mine is Sunday.  That’s the day we usually have dinner at my daughter’s house and then do crosswords on Zoom with all three of my girls.  Sunday has always been the day for family gatherings.  Even the Cavemen (sorry, I should have said Cave-People) would relax from their quotidian and prosaic routines to enjoy a Sunday evening get-together.  The men would barbecue a Woolly Mammoth while the kids played Hunt and Gather in the clearing nearby.  The women would fetch water and discuss the latest fashion in leg hair.  It was a simple and primitive time.  And how, you might ask, did they even know it was Sunday?  That’s easy – the Chick-Fil-A was closed.

 

Weekly Word:  I suppose you might think quotidian would be the weekly word.  Quotidian means something routinely done every day.  But it’s not because it was already the weekly word back in Blog #168.  What, you think I don’t keep track of all of this?  I keep track of everything.  Today’s word is prosaic, which pretty much means the same as quotidian – dull, boring, routine.  Aren’t you glad?

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Never anything can be amiss, when simpleness and duty tender it (A Midsummer Night’s Dream).  My favorite day of the week is the day he comes home.  I have a simple life.  I just need food and water and a warm lap.  When the lap goes out of town, I’m sad.  But he’s back now, so Purrrr.

 

Yes, Shakey, we’re back from California now after a lovely visit with my daughter and the kids.  To me, California is a very bizarre place.  I realized that instantly when the plane landed in Long Beach and, instead of an orderly exit at the front, half of us were plopped out the rectal end of the aircraft like --- sorry, an old fool’s tongue will run away with him sometimes.

 

First of all, the architecture is different.  In the Midwest, a home is likely to be very similar to the homes on either side.  Not in the Golden State.  One house looks like it was designed by Peruvian potato farmers and the one next door looks like it was beamed down from the planet Arkon.  And all the streets begin with either LOS or EL or SAN.  But the biggest difference is the foliage.  My daughter lives at the northern shore of San Francisco Bay, and as we walked along the water, we were charmed by the shrubs and flowers that were totally unlike anything in St. Louis.  So beautiful!

 

One morning, a perfect day to take a walk, I dressed and walked into the front of the house where my sweet and adoring wife greeted me with these loving words: “Those shorts are too short,” was all she said.  Sometimes, I think I am so low on my wife’s priority list that it would take legal-sized paper to find me.  But, I admit the shorts were old.  When I bought them, Pluto was still a planet.  I dutifully took them off and promised to give them away so that next year, some poor fellow in an impoverished village in Southern Sudan can wake up, put on the same shorts and hear his delightful wife say, “Where did you get those skimpy-assed shorts?” 

 

Rotten Oysters:  We watched a movie on TV while we were there.  It was called Zone of Interest, and I don’t remember much about it except that it was really slow.  At least the first three weeks of it were.  I’ve seen stalactites grow faster.  It was glacial.  It was viscous.  Get the picture?  Well don’t get this picture.  It was slow.  So, if you have a choice between watching this movie or going to Timbuktu and having your brain transplanted -- take the latter.

 

And speaking of having a brain transplant, I just heard that the Pro-Palestinian protestors on college campuses have demanded that their student loans be forgiven.  That way, they’ll have more money to buy flammable American flags.  Tell me – when did we decide to let masked, tablecloth-wearing antisemites run our universities?  Oh wait, I forgot – they already do.

 

With the nice weather, I’m anxious to get back to my job at the Zoo.  I’m feeling great, as fit as a crotchety old fiddle and ready to greet the tourists and answer all their questions.  Where’s the tiger?  Where’s the bathroom?  Where’s the Starbucks?  They just have to get their Starbucks!

 

A tall mocha latte – decaf

And throw in some mint for a laugh

Oh Hell, make me happy

And make it a frappe

With extra low-fat Half ‘n Half.

 

Remember when it was a Cup-a-Joe and cost 30 cents?  Now, their prices are so high I think the name should be changed to Star Ten Bucks.  Starbuck, as you may know, was the First Mate on the Pequod, the ship Captain Ahab led to kill the White Whale.  Just a little Moby Dickiness there.  My wife always says, if a person who loves the Grateful Dead is called a Dead Head, what do you call a person who loves Moby Dick?  On the other hand, as political satirist P.J. O’Rourke said, “Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.” 

 

Ok, this blog is over.  As the Carpenter aboard the Pequod mused.  It started at the beginning, reached the middle midway through and came to an end at the conclusion.  We’ll try again next week.  Be there!  In the meanwhile, stay well, count your blessings and apply to Columbia University.  You might get in.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com