Blog #394                                         September 26, 2024

 

I lay in bed this morning very still.  I was comfortable, neither cold nor warm, and I had nowhere to go, nothing special to do.  Every day is pretty much the same when you’re retired.  It was so quiet I could hear my beard growing, so I lay there and I thought:  Why stir things up?  If I get up and start moving things like my eyeballs or my knuckles or my tongue – well, anything could happen.  Every morning at this time, I feel like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz.  Oil can, oil can, he begged Dorothy, and that’s exactly what I need -- a few squirts of oil to loosen up my parts.  Now I’m up and the sun is shining and everything seems to be fine.  Now, if I only had a brain.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling chipper.  Happy New Year to all my Jewish friends and readers.  In the Jewish calendar, we will soon enter the Year 5785.  The Jews have certainly been around a long, long time.  Maybe that’s why the matzo is so stale.  It seems like only yesterday when Moses and I were discussing those commandments.  I begged him to include Thou shalt not argue with your wife as one of the commandments, but he rejected it.  As Will Rogers said, “There are two theories to arguing with a woman.  Neither works.”  I also tried to get him to include Thou shalt not slice, but he rejected that one too.  I was talking about golf, but Moses thought I was talking about circumcisions.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? . . . If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?”  (Merchant of Venice).  I am a Jewish cat, I suppose.  I celebrate Puss-over and Yom Ki-Purr, and I’m studying for my Cat-Mitzvah.  But I still think the matzo is stale.  Purr.

 

The news today said police are looking for John Smith (or something) who is missing.  He is driving a white Camaro with Illinois plates and is suffering from “bi-polar disorder”.  So if we see him, contact the police, yadda yadda.  So, bi-polar disorder – what is that exactly?  Are we looking for a guy with two white bears in the back seat of his white Camaro with Illinois plates?  Or am I looking for a guy with two poles stuck into his posterior?  I need more information.

 

Do you believe what you hear on TV nowadays?  Voting by mail is bad.  Voting by mail is good.  Trump is a danger to democracy.  Kamala will destroy the country.  Melania has bad boots.  Kamala has good boots.  It’s Israel’s fault.  No, it’s Hamas’ fault. They’re eating dogs in Ohio.  What?  It just depends on what channel you watch, doesn’t it?  But this kind of misinformation has been going on forever.

 

Take The Gift of the Magi for instance, that heart-wrenching short story by O Henry. You know the plot.  A young married couple is very much in love but also very much in poverty.  For their first anniversary, she wants to buy him a silver chain for his only possession, a cherished pocket watch.  But she has no money, so she cuts her long, beautiful hair and sells it to a wig maker to get the money for the chain.  Meanwhile, he wants to buy her a set of large ornate combs for her long hair but all he has is the watch.  He sells it and buys the combs.  A classic and sad tale.  But wait – there’s the misinformation.  It’s not sad at all.  Not one bit.  Just fast-forward six months.  The girl’s hair has grown back and she still has the combs.  Plus, she returned the silver watch chain and got her money back.  So now she has her long hair and the combs and a fist full of money.  She is no longer penurious.  And the boy, the poor dumb schmuck, he doesn’t even know what time it is.  But he’s happy.  He has a loving wife with a bunch of money and beautiful hair – and big combs.

 

Our Weekly Word today is penurious, which means poor, poverty stricken.

 

I love animals; you know that.  But these Canada Geese are a pain.  It’s the season now for them to arrive, and they’re messy and loud.  There was a screeching gaggle of them in my subdivision just the other day, and I had to yell at them:

 

What’s going on?  What is the riot?

Why is it you birds can’t keep quiet?

I’ll fix you one day

Turn you into pâté

And go on a goose-liver diet.

 

Do you like cucumbers?  Now there’s a non sequitur for you.  A non sequitur is a statement that does not logically follow the previous argument or statement.  I don’t like them – cucumbers, not non sequiturs.  Why is it that some people like cucumbers and some don’t?  Animals aren’t like that, are they?  Do you think there’s a lion somewhere that doesn’t like wildebeest?  Hey, fellas, I’ll pass on the gnu tonight.  I think I’ll have a salad.  They just don’t agree with me.  No gnus is good gnus.  Or a chimp that doesn’t like bananas?  Too much sugar there, Cheetah.  I’m cutting down on the carbs.

 

A stockbroker called me this morning with a hot new stock.  It’s Polar.com.  He kept saying Buy Polar!  Buy Polar!  I asked if he had a white Camaro with Illinois plates.  He said Buy Polar.  I think it’s the guy.

 

Carol and I (or, as I sometimes like to say to my friends from Arkansas, me and the missus) had dinner outdoors at a friend’s house and they had dug up some old pictures of us – 40 years old.  I can always predict what people will do when they see pictures of themselves from decades ago.  The women will always say, “Oh my God, look at my hair!”  And the men will say, “I still have that shirt.”

 

Well, I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome.  Besides, I have to go find that shirt, so Shakespeare and I will say goodbye for now, but we’ll be back next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.  Nos vemos la próxima semana. That’s Spanish for “Buy Polar.”

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #393                                         September 19, 2024

 

Recently, Carol and I went out to eat at a capacious and fancy French restaurant.  I don’t love French food, and I had a yen for something simple, something Italian, maybe Chicken Cacciatori.  I tried to see if they would make it for me, but the haughty French waiter looked at me like I had ordered warm white wine.  I insisted, poetically:

 

Well, thank you – yes the wine is nice; the menu is quite charming

I’ve read it but I notice the selection is alarming

I cannot find the food I want, Monsieur, so here’s the story

Just go on back and have them make me Chicken Cacciatori

 

I don’t care if it’s registered or pampered or free-range

I will not be adventurous – I do not want to change

No cous-cous please or other grain that’s in that category

Just one clean plate upon which lies some Chicken Cacciatori

 

No chutney please or tofu or persimmon ratatouille

No Anjou pears, kumquat beurre blanc or bias-sliced andouille

I do not want it fried or poached, Marsala or Tandoori

Just plain old simple, unexciting Chicken Cacciatori

 

I do not want a salad made of baby backyard weeds

In fact I’m pretty mad ‘cause you’re not listening to my needs

I’ll slice you up and send your bones on to a crematory

If you don’t bring me what I want – some Chicken Cacciatori!

 

Sorry for that lyrical nonsense.  I’m not sure why I did it. Kapka Kassabova said, “Perhaps you don’t always have to know what you’re doing or why, just that you have to.”

 

Hi there and welcome back to your refuge of insane humor and general goofiness.  You’re Special!  That’s what the little pamphlet that was hidden in my library book said.  It went on with some religious stuff, and that’s ok, but it was just nice to be told that I was special.  So, listen up – you’re special.  You take the time each week to read my silly ramblings and that makes you special to me.  What should we talk about today?  How about our Weekly Word?  Capacious means roomy, having a lot of space inside.

 

Have You Noticed that each day seems like every other day?  I can only tell what day it is by looking at my pill-box.  If Tuesday is the last empty cubical, then it’s Wednesday.  Of course, you can always tell when it’s Thursday, because here I am.

 

Have You Noticed that every week there is a drug bust where the Police find $400,000 in cash and $500,000 worth of drugs in a car that was pulled over for not replacing a $29 tail light?  Maybe the drug dealers should use Uber.  Or maybe we should just make drugs legal.  It would save police resources and reduce the prison populations.  I can just see the mega-retailers lining up now. 

 

                   Drugs R Us                     Pot Barn

                   Crack in the Box             Quik Trip

                   Meth A. O. Schwartz       Containers and Morphine

 

Have You Noticed that the mail is pretty much all junk?  Cruise-line catalogs, hearing-aid ads, health insurance promos, invitations to wealth-management seminars. My mail today consisted of two pieces, and this is the absolute truth – one was a large envelope addressed to me with the return-address spot filled by large, black letters spelling out DONALD J. TRUMP.  The other was a similar envelope, similar size, same large, black letters, but these spelled KAMALA HARRIS.  I cut out the Trump name and mailed it to Kamala and mailed Harris’s name to Trump.

 

Doesn’t it seem that the world is getting crazier all the time?  I just want to hide in a cave and shield myself from it all.  I want to read and talk to you all and play with Shakespeare, but the world is too much for me.  I want my psychiatrist back.  I had one in 2007.  I’m not even sure he was a psychiatrist, maybe a psychologist, but he helped me stop drinking and stop listening to Alice’s Restaurant and I enjoyed talking to him. 

 

Do you know who the first psychiatrist was?  It was Snow White.  It’s true!  Snow asked her first seven patients if they were Happy.  Only one of them said yes.  Well, she felt sorry for them and asked all seven to come live with her.  Snow was a little kinky.  Her house was tiny, so to fit them all in she used one of her Snow White Privilege magic potions to make them smaller, turning them into dwarfs.  And that is why, to this day, psychiatrists are called shrinks.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  That way madness lies; let me shun that (King Lear).  The world must be crazy.  Is it really true that, in some place called Ohio, people are eating cats and dogs.  Dogs I can understand.  They can make them into German Shepherd Pie with collie-flower.  Or maybe Poodles Romanov.  But cats?  No way.  The only thing cats are good for is Chicken Cat-Ciatori.  But Pops?  He definitely needs a psychiatrist.  He’s as messed up as an un-opened jigsaw puzzle.  Purr.

 

It's time for a Covid booster.  We have always gotten ours at the CVS in Target, so I went there today.  I approached the nice, young pharmacist and played the POP Card.  That stands for Pitiful Old People.  I explained that I’m not really good at getting an appointment online, and maybe he could just make me an appointment himself.  The POP Card worked, and we got our boosters.  He was as nice as could be.

 

Have You Noticed that anytime a Democrat dies, he-or-she was a Cultural Icon, but anytime a Republican dies, he-or-she was a Controversial Figure?

 

Well, I am certainly a controversial figure, as many of you have stated in your comments (I love your comments), so I’ll stop now and let you put me in my place.  But not before telling you that today is National Butterscotch Pudding Day.  Sounds yummy.  It is also National Talk Like a Pirate Day. Would I lie to you?  So hark, me buccos: 

 

Be takin’ me threat to the bank

Ye’ve just got yer own self to thank

If yer out drinkin’ grog

Stead of readin’ me blog

I’m makin’ ye all walk the plank.

 

I guess you’d better stay well, count your blessings and come back to see me next week.  Arrgh!

 

Blackbeard                               Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

LIMERICK    OYSTER

Blog #392                                September 12, 2024

 

Carol and I watched a lot of the US Open tennis during the last two weeks.  It was very entertaining.  But there’s something that aggravates me.  The chair umpire -- you know, the person who sits on the chair and calls out the score as if there weren’t huge scoreboards everywhere.  Well, I’ve noticed for years now that those umpires always have a foreign accent, maybe French or something else.  That pisses me off.  It’s the US Open, and the US, for those of you who spent the first 18 years of your life under a man-hole cover, stands for United States, and we should not have to settle for some ersatz substitute chair umpire.  We have 330 million people here.  Some of them actually speak English, and it seems like we could find a few who could say “forty-thirty” without having it sound like some kind of custard dessert.  Have you ever heard a chair umpire at the French Open with a German accent?  Or, God forbid, an American accent?  The French would sooner whitewash the Mona Lisa than to have an American chair umpire at the French Open.  Stand up, People, it’s the US Open.  Have some US people as chair umpires.  Jeesh!

 

Apology #1:  Excuse me for using “man-hole cover”.  I guess it should have been “person-hole cover”.  Jeesh!

 

And besides, what’s with not allowing the Russian players to say they’re from Russia?  They know they’re from Russia.  We know they’re from Russia.  We’re not stupid.  But the Tennis World has decided to punish Russia for the war in Ukraine or for doping their athletes or for colluding with Trump again.  Whatever it is, the Russian players are not allowed any letters after their names.  A German player has GER after his or her name, an American has USA, a Spaniard has ESP, an Israeli has ISR (except at the French Open they put JEW). But a Russian player must suffer the sins of its motherland by not having anything.  No letters, no RUS, nothing.  They let the Russians play, but punish them like 4^th-graders – nya, nya, nya, nya you don’t get no letters.  It’s juvenile; it’s imbecilic; it’s ridiculous.  Like allowing French umpires at the US Open.

 

An American woman made the finals in the tournament, as did an American man, but they were both underdogs and both lost. 

 

Apology #2:  I called the female tennis player an underdog.  I wonder if a female underdog should be called something else.  Would it be an under-bitch?

 

A female boar is a sow

A female bull is a cow

From warlock to witch

Underdog -- under-bitch

And boy, I’m in big trouble now.

 

Under-bitch.  I think I just invented that word.  Well, who else would be that stupid?  But I did not invent our Weekly Word, ersatz, which means an artificial and inferior substitute or imitation

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  I am.  Yes, I am officially declaring myself done with pneumonia and am back to my – well, I almost said normal life, but any of you who think I’m normal has more screws loose than I do.  Once again, I thank you all for the good wishes and advice and love and support you’ve given me the last five weeks.  It helped a lot.

 

Have you noticed that every time you go to a doctor’s office, they take your temperature?  When I was little, the nurse would stick a glass tube up my you-know-what.  Later they graduated to putting the glass tube under my tongue.  Gee, I sure hope it wasn’t the same glass tube.  Now, they just wave some gizmo at me and tell me my temperature is 37.  I know that’s Centigrade, but I wonder why.  I’m not in France or Nepal or Abu Dhabi.  I’m in the USA, where the meteorologists tell us the forecast in Fahrenheit.  Where every recipe, every oven, every toaster contraption is calibrated in Fahrenheit.  Where water freezes at 32 and boils at 212.  So why is the nurse trying to confuse me?  If the medical community wants to conduct its affairs in the Wonderful World of Metric, great.  I don’t care.  But I would like to know what my temperature is.  Being a math nerd, I can do the conversion (9/5+32), but what if I couldn’t or if I made a mistake?  Then she told me my weight was 71.  Now that I didn’t mind.

 

Did you watch the Debate?  Of course you did.  The debates are useless.  We know who these people are; we know what they’ll do.  Do we watch so we can hear about their energy policy or the border?  No, we want to sit there and scream at the one we hate the most.  You liar!  You fool!  I hate you!  I hope you make mistakes and look like an ass and fall down and have a stroke!  The debates are an anachronistic and hateful display of schadenfreude and a waste of time.  Carol made popcorn.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns (Henry VI, Part 3).  They don’t even need this election.  Just make me the King.  I would make life so simple.  Sleep most of the day.  Stay up at night and watch the stars.  Eat salmon pâté out of a can.  How much trouble could we get into if we all did that?  Purr.

 

Speaking of the border, there is an old story about a kid who rode his bike across the US-Mexico border every Friday.  The guard searched him every time, but never found any contraband.  “Why do you always search me,” the kid asked.  “I know you’re smuggling something,” replied the guard, “but I just can’t find it.”  Years later, the guard, now retired, ran into the kid, now grown, in a bar.  “Look,” he said, “it doesn’t matter anymore, but I still think you were smuggling something.  What was it?”  “I was smuggling bicycles,” he replied.

 

Apology #3: Yes, Dear, I’m sure it was my fault.  I’ve used that one so many times, I say it in my sleep.  But I won’t apologize for this week’s blog.  It’s the real thing, not some ersatz counterfeit.  So stay well, count your blessings and be here next Thursday for sure – we need to talk.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #391                                September 5, 2024

 

A concerned and loyal reader told me he was not satisfied with my recovery and suggested I get a second opinion.  That sounded reasonable, so I called my doctor.  I told the doctor he had diagnosed me with pneumonia, but now I wanted a second opinion.  “Okay,” he said, “you’re ugly too.”  So much for second opinions and old jokes.  Hi there and welcome back.  How the hell are you?  I hope you are feeling well.  Did you have a nice Labor Day?  It’s the beginning of Fall, the beginning of school, the end of swimming.  We had a lovely barbecue get-together with some friends – it was very nice.  At one point, all five women were sitting around a table screaming at their Apple Watches, “Hey, Siri, what time is it in Jerusalem?”  Seriously.  With all five of them talking, Siri couldn’t figure out which yenta was which, so the watches kept giving the wrong time.  I don’t have an Apple Watch.  I have a Crapple Watch.  It does one thing; it tells me what time it is.  It doesn’t tell me the dew point or the phone number of the nearest Starbucks, or my blood pressure or today’s Wordle or the temperature in Jerusalem.  It tells me the time.  That’s all.  And if it’s off by a minute or two, well, the world will not come to an end.

 

This is Week Four of Pneumonia.  I’m pretty much fed up with it.  I’m beginning to feel like Edmond Dantés scratching himself out of the Chateau d’If.  Is this ever going to end?  One thing I miss is taking a walk every morning around our neighborhood.  Almost every morning I would see this charming couple, in their 80s, I guess.  They ambulate slowly but steadily up the street and back, and each wears a floppy hat, a long-sleeved safari shirt and long pants.  The charming part is that they hold hands continuously.  Do you know the difference between continuously and continually?  Continuous is non-stop, happening every microsecond.  On a beautiful day, the Sun shines continuously.  Continual is often, but off and on.  A person with a sore throat coughs continually.  Am I not just a bottomless cornucopia of useless what-nots?  Don’t worry, there won’t be a quiz.

 

But there is a Weekly Word.  It’s ambulate, which means to move around.

 

Sometimes, Carol and I walk at the same time but, unlike the couple holding hands, we don’t walk together.  In fact, we don’t even leave the building from the same door.  She goes upstairs and leaves from the main entrance like the aristocracy and I go downstairs and leave by the side door where the trash dumpster is.  It’s where I belong.  That’s what I get for being useless, but, like my Crapple Watch, I still have one thing I can do pretty well:

 

All morning, all day and all night

I’m wrong all the time – never right

It’s a good thing that still

I’m left with one skill

To write poems that always rhyme perfectly.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool (As You Like It).  Well, I can do lots of things well.  I can jump on the bed at 5:00 in the morning and meow in Pops’ ear.  I can spit up fur balls on the carpet.  I can fill up an entire lap.  And, best of all, I can purr.  Purr.

 

Besides playing with Shakespeare, one activity I can do while sitting at home is play bridge online.  It’s very easy, and you can meet interesting people.  One time, my partner turned out to be Kamala Harris.  Yes, our Vice-President.  I didn’t like playing with her.  The only bid she ever made was NO TRUMP.

 

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting old.  I’m as old as Cher.  We’re 78.  Plus, I’m old enough to be able to hum all the following songs.  Can you:

 

·        All I really want to do is Baby be friends with you (Sonny & Cher)

·        The answer is blowin’ in the wind (Peter, Paul & Mary)

·        Don’t think twice, it’s alright (Peter, Paul & Mary)

·        Well it ain’t me Babe (The Turtles)

·        Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man (The Byrds)

·        You’ll not see nothing like the Mighty Quinn (Manfred Mann)

 

How did you do?  Could you hum them all?  Do you know what all those songs have in common?  They were all written by a nice Jewish boy named Bob Zimmerman, who you probably know as Bob Dylan.  Bob is 83.

 

I was recently asked to pick a famous couple that my wife and I resemble.   One of those pointless wastes of cranial energy we call a Carol Question.  Like -- “Would you rather be an ugly tall-person or a beautiful midget?”  That one kept me up all night.  Anyway, famous couple.  Let’s see – how about George and Gracie?  No, I hate cigars.  Lucy and Desi?  No, my wife doesn’t have red hair.  Taylor and Travis?  Who am I kidding?  I finally decided we most resemble Rocky and Bullwinkle.  Carol would be Rocky of course.  Rocky the Flying Squirrel was small and fast and smart and made all the decisions.  Bullwinkle J. Moose was loyal and steady and goofy, always getting it wrong, always getting in trouble, always getting lost.  Probably had a Crapple Watch.

 

Actually, in my heart, I like to think of Carol and me as Rob and Laura Petrie.  He, like Bullwinkle, was goofy and got everything wrong, but he was good at making people laugh and she – well, she was Mary Tyler Moore.

 

I have to go now.  I have to clean up the house before the cleaning person arrives.  Do you do that?  Why do we all do that?  We hire someone to clean the house, then clean the house before the cleaner arrives.  It makes no sense.  It’s like cooking your own dinner and taking it to a restaurant.  It’s like cutting your own hair before you go the barber.  It’s like writing your own blog instead of reading mine.  Don’t you dare do that.  I’ll handle the blogging, thank you very much; you handle the laughter.  Please stay safe, count your blessings and try to find some fun in this crazy world.  See you next week.

 

Bullwinkle                                         Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com