Blog #465                                February 5, 2026

 

I had a slice-and-dice session with Dr. Skin.  It was a basil-cell thingy and she sliced it off and cauterized the wound.  Her young associate actually performed the procedure, and had asked me beforehand if I had a pacemaker or defibrillator.  You see, they were going to cauterize the wound by using an electric charge.  I said, “Whoa, Hoss.  I have (pointing to my chest) a pacemaker, a defibrillator and a 26-inch flat-screen in there and if you set one of them off, it will not be pleasant.” 

 

Your fancy electric device

Might shock me and that isn’t nice

My heart will go boom

And I’ll light up the room

And my body will turn cold as ice.

 

Dr. Skin said she thought it would be alright, and it was.  It is a sobering fact to realize that the beating of my heart is controlled by a device assembled by the lowest bidder.  Plus, the defibrillator has an internal siren that sounds like a Nazi police car and comes out of my chest.  They test it every once in a while, and, believe me, it is very spooky to hear that Gestapo sound coming from your own chest. I hate the Nazi siren.  I would rather have music; even Nazi music would be better. 

 

Oh no.  I knew this was coming! Now he is going to come up with some stupid list of Nazi songs that he made up.  It’s bad enough we have to read his dumb limericks, now we have to suffer through this stupid thing.  Exactly!  Get over it.  Here they are – Nazi songs!

 

Well It’s Bad, Bad Eva Braun, We’re So Sorry Uncle Adolph, Hitler With Your Best Shot, and yes, I have a favorite: Come On Baby Light My Fuhrer.

 

Welcome back, everyone.  I hope you are feeling well.  Are you fed up with all the political squabbling?  I am, but let’s forget it all for a while and look forward to Spring.  That’s right, it’s February, and that means Spring is around the corner.  Which reminds me – Monday was Groundhog Day and Punxsutawney Phil peeped his furry little head out of his hole.  Let’s see if I remember the rules:  if Phil sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of Winter.  If he doesn’t, it means an early Spring.  If he sees Tom Homan’s shadow, he’ll be deported to Guantanamo Bay.  Do they have groundhogs in Cuba?  Maybe not.  Anyway, Phil popped out, saw his shadow and scurried back in immediately to avoid being interviewed by Don Lemon.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor.  (The Tempest).  Why an ugly, old groundhog?  Why not a beautiful cat?  We could have Cat Day and I could be St. Louis Shakespeare and everyone could pet me.  Purr.

 

I don’t know what to talk about this week.  No funny stories, no goofy poems, no vitriolic philippics.  Oh, there’s a story actually.  I was reading a biography of Winston Churchill, and the word philippic was used.  I had never encountered that word, so I looked it up.  It means a bitter attack or denunciation, the kind of thing I launch into with you once in a while.  It was such an unfamiliar word, I decided to share it with you as our Weekly Word, which I have just done.  Then, Sunday night, as we – wife, daughters, grandchildren – congregated on Zoom to destroy the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle, we came upon a clue.  Philippic, it read.  No-one had ever heard of it, and neither had I until a few days before, so I told them the definition and we came up with the answer of tirade, which fit nicely into the puzzle.  I thought the coincidence was spooky.

 

I am also reading another book, a novel, and it has a very religious undertone.  God, of course, is referenced as HE.  In last week’s edition, I mentioned God and employed HE.  Carol previews each edition of my blog before I send it to you to make sure I don’t make too many stupid mistakes.  When she read last week’s, she said, “Can’t God be a SHE?”  No, I replied, I’m pretty sure God is a HE.  But there was a Mrs. God.  SHE was the one sitting around reading a book one day when she said, “Honey, it’s really dark in here.  Can’t you turn on a light?”  Let There Be Light boomed out God, and the rest is history.  And don’t ask me what book Mrs. God was reading.  How should I know?

 

Maybe SHE was reading a magazine.  Can you guess the magazine with the largest subscription?  It’s AARP The Magazine.  In second place is AARP Bulletin.  They each have about 23 million readers.  By contrast, Time, National Geographic, Cosmopolitan, Sports Illustrated and Readers Digest each have about 3 million readers.  It seems that AARP has the Old People market under control.  What we need are magazines for Dead People.  Here are a few proposals: Good Hearsekeeping, Corpse Illustrated, Better Plots and Gardens. 

 

I had lunch with a friend yesterday.  Naturally I got there early and, as I patiently sat, reading my book and sipping an iced tea, a lady (my age I suppose) came in and sat at a nearby table.  She told the waiter, “I’m waiting for one more -- short, balding, glasses.”  Is that how we talk about our loved ones when they’re not around?  With some trio of defining characteristics?  Is that how Carol would describe me to a waiter – gray hair, carries a book, Nazi siren coming out of his chest. 

 

When I describe her, it’s always in glorious and adoring superlatives – I’m waiting for a beautiful dark-haired woman.  I would never say, “I’m waiting for one more – short, walks fast, won’t like the table.”  Anyway, when this lady’s husband came in, I knew him immediately from his wife’s description.  He was short and nondescript and lost and generally husband-looking.  I almost just waved at him and pointed him to his wife’s table.  But he found her.  We always do.

 

That’s all, folks.  Another normal week – Nazi music and magazines for dead people.  And you keep coming back?  There must be something wrong with you.  See you next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com