Brought to You by . . .

My sister and I were listening to a football game on the radio and chuckling at all the sponsorship reads the announcers had to do. When they gave scores for other games there was a sponsor to mention, when they discussed a great play, it became the “play of the game” which of course had a sponsor. It made me wonder what a broadcast will be in a few years:

“Hello everybody this is Big Dave Stucky comin’ at ya from Met Life Stadium where the Jets are taking on the Patriots. My introduction was sponsored by Overbrook Electronics of Trenton New Jersey. And now let’s welcome my partner, former all pro running back Glenn Forster and his sponsor Taco Bill’s on route 1.”

“Thanks Dave, I love me some tacos.”

“Sure, who doesn’t. That banter was brought to you by Moon Mobile, more talk for less money. Glenn what do the Jets have to do today to stop the Pats?”

“Well Dave, your question was brought to us by The Puritan School, a charter school for all ages. The Jets need to pressure Brady early and often to keep that offense off-balance. When the Jets are on offense they need to run the ball to control the clock. My opinion sponsored by News Channel 7, home of the news and views that help you not to think.”

“All right, we are ready for the Cheese Wiz opening kick-off. Andre Roberts receives the ball at the Nestles 3-yard line and after a few jukes sponsored by Melanie’s School of Dance of Secaucus New Jersey, he’s pulled down at the McDonald’s 24.”

“The Jets really need to get stronger on special Teams, Dave. My opinion sponsored by Haberstroh’s Haberdashery New York, New York.”

“Ok, we’re ready for the GE first play of the game. Darnold drops back and flicks a pass to Bilal Powell for a 4-yard gain. Those positive yards brought to you by Tony Robbins. Second down, brought to you by Second Chance Animal Sanctuary, and Darnold hands off to Powell who goes up the middle for 3 more yards. That puts the ball at the Quaker State 31-yard line.”

“The Jets need to establish a run game today Dave. My analysis sponsored by The Schlichter Group, a nonpartisan think tank from Washington D.C.”

“It’s Arby’s third down and Darnold throws incomplete down the middle. That incompletion brought to you by Cadillac. The Jets are in the Jack Links Beef Jerky punt formation . . .”

“They need a good kick to pin the Pats deep.”

“Glenn’s comment sponsored by Dell. The kick is taken at the Acura 15-yard line by Edelman. He cuts right and is tackled at the Snickers 25. We’ll be back after these messages.”

*****

“Welcome back everyone to the Jeep second drive of the game. Glenn?”

“Thank you, Dave. My commercial break bowel movement was brought to you by Quilted Northern. Let’s see if the Patriots can jump on the Jets early. Analysis sponsored by Wells Fargo.”

“Right you are Glenn, the Patriots love to get teams in an early hole. My agreement of your analysis brought to you by Royal Farms. Brady drops back and throws a Kentucky Fried Chicken deep pass to a Pepsi open receiver.”

“He caught it! My excitement sponsored by Texas Roadhouse!”

“Edelman has it at the Home Depot 40, he’s at the Lowe’s 35, cuts right, breaks a Pizza Hut tackle at the Netflix 29, slips another Subway tackle, he’s at the Regal Cinemas 17, the WaWa 10, Vizio 5, Apple Watch touchdown!”

“Wow! Sponsored by Jim Beam!”

“What a Stephen King’s latest blockbuster start to the game. We’ll be Miller Lite right back.”

Introvert Beach

I’m an introvert. There, I said it.

And a word to all you extroverts: There’s nothing wrong with being an introvert. We’re not broken, we don’t need fixed, we don’t need to change, we don’t need your help to socialize. We don’t WANT to socialize unless we choose to.

Here’s the deal. Introverts and extroverts are simply wired differently in the brain. Being around people fills an extrovert with energy, with an introvert it drains us of energy. You’re like a Duracell battery and we’re like the Chinese knockoffs I bought at a flea market once called Durracall that lasted for an hour.

With all this in mind here is what I really want to talk about. I was at Bethany Beach in Delaware a few weeks ago. It’s off season so the beach wasn’t full. I was able to find a spot to enjoy the ocean but still be an introvert-acceptable distance away from everyone else. About twenty minutes into my stay I hear newly arrived people walking behind me. Then I hear the snapping open of beach chairs. The ffflhhh of blankets being unfurled. All this is happening no more than twenty feet away from me.

Seriously? You have an entire beach to plop down on and you choose do it closely enough that I can hear you unwrap the tuna sandwiches you brought along while talking on your cell phone to Jan back home in Lancaster? I came to listen to the waves crashing not you describe every millisecond of your vacation to your friend who hasn’t left the house since 1972.

I am proposing the incorporation of Introvert Beach. This stretch of sand will be open only to introverts who will instinctively know:

How far away to construct their beach-day kingdom so we don’t interact with each other.

If you’re thinking about getting in the water but someone else makes their move first, you will know to stay seated until that person is finished frolicking in the waves.

There won’t be any forced small talk, shouting for no reason, or screaming children. The sounds of the waves will battle only with the sound of book pages turning.

More than one person will be permitted to look for sea shells at the same time because heads will be down so there won’t be any eye-contact.

I’m aware that the powers-that-be (in other words: extroverts) may fight this amazing idea because they want everyone to be like them; befouling the air with jibber-jabber, making phone calls to hear their own voices and gathering together in large groups for made-up days of meaning. “Hey, Dan finally cut his toe nails. We’re meeting at the pub after work to celebrate!”

“Mary and Dave replaced the water heater in their condo, time to party!” “I’m still breathing, come to my house for jalapeno poppers and wine!”

In this case, I have an alternate proposal.

Before entering the beach, all extroverts must put on a wrist band that will provide electrical shocks if they try to put up their tent or umbrella too close to an introvert. The shocks will continue until you have moved an appropriate distance away. An extrovert may say hello to an introvert but if they attempt unwarranted small talk, shocks will continue until they move along.

Hopefully by next summer on the eastern shore introverts will have their own private beach. Next I’m going to work on a restaurant, the Introvert Bar and Grill. There will be twenty tables but seating for only 8 at a time.

Who?

“Jedediah Bila is Leaving The View” the headline blared on Facebook. 

Oh no! Someone I’ve never heard of is leaving a show I don’t watch!

What will I do? How will I wake up tomorrow knowing something happened that I don’t give a shit about?

Will the Sun still be yellow and send trillions of photons of light hurtling toward earth at 186,000 miles/sec? Or will there be an enormous grapefruit in the sky squirting us with gallons of citric acid? Will a year still last for 365 days or will it feel unending, like watching an episode of Dr. Phil?

Will dogs still bark or will they now make high-pitched vocalizations that sound like “glub-glub, cooka-cooka”? What about chickens? Will we as a society still cook delicious chicken breasts in 2000 different ways or will we suddenly be eating broasted prairie dog while chickens now sit on school boards and city councils discussing redistricting or adopting a new history textbook?

And what about the other hosts of The View. Will they be the same insufferable hags doling out life advice from their ivory towers and pandering with clichéd interviews of other pompous celebrities? Or will they have changed?

What if, instead of just thinking they shit rose petals, they actually do? And they demonstrate on air. What if, instead of just believing they’re better than you, they actually are? What if they’ve grown taller, stronger and with perfect dental hygiene? What if you asked them a politically charged question and they answered in a way that satisfied evangelical conservatives, tree-hugging liberals and hard-line communists at the same time?

Now imagine it changes in the other way. What if they’re worse? What if watching an episode of The View goes beyond the brain-cell destroying anathema to quality and intelligence it has always been and becomes a monster so heinous even Maury Povich shouts “They’ve gone too far!” while hiding in a closet with three of his unwed mother guests telling them stories about when people respected him.

Then again, none of this will probably happen just because someone I didn’t know existed has decided not to do a show I didn’t know they were on for reasons I don’t care about. And it will not change my feelings about The View which is I would rather you rub my eyes with a Q-tip soaked in ghost pepper hot sauce than watch that wet pile of elephant dung of a show. With or without the person whose leaving that I didn’t know was an actual person until yesterday.

Narcissus Goes to Yard Sales

Seemingly on a daily basis I come in contact with a certain kind of person that believes they are the only person on Earth, so therefore they can do whatever they want. Their actions have no effect on other people because they are alone on the planet.

I was at some yard sales this weekend and had another encounter with such a person. I don’t know this man’s name so I will refer to him as “Asshole” for the remainder of my tirade. My story begins now:

It was an ethereal morning. Sunlight beamed down like a stairway to Heaven, birds sang madrigals of love and prosperity. Lawns were verdant. Men stood hale and hearty alongside their women whose skin carried the ruby blush of health and vitality.

Having finished my perusing at one yard sale I was walking to another just up the street when the ground shook and the sky was choked with black smoke. I turned just as a goliath pick-up truck passed by. Each wheel taller than a man, made of rubber the color of night, the tread baring teeth covered in the flesh of its victims.

This truck was so large it blotted out the sun as it rumbled by. People in the neighborhood cried out believing the world was ending, the Apocalypse upon us. I glanced into the cab and saw a family of 6 living in the back seat. Grandmother was cooking breakfast for the children while mother did laundry and father mulched a grove of Larch trees planted in the truck bed.

The next yard sale was set up in the home’s driveway. It turned out that the Asshole driving the 2017 Ford Overcompensation was going to the same sale. His tiny penis pulled his behemoth over to the side of the road and instead of parking next to the house’s yard, Asshole parks directly in front of the driveway, thus cutting off access to the yard sale from anyone else. To get there myself I had to put on heavy boots, carve a walking staff and hike around Asshole’s truck. Thankfully I made it ok, but my Sherpa wasn’t so lucky.

I can’t stand this type of narcissism. There were dozens of people walking the neighborhood from sale to sale, enjoying a nice summer day, but only one magnificent Asshole driving his manhood and parking it front and center for all to see. He might as well have walked pants-less into the middle of the road and yelled “Hey everybody, look at my dick. Ain’t it purty?”

So be careful. These zombies of self-involvement are everywhere and as far as they’re concerned, everyone wants to see their junk.

Everything is Out to Get Me

Kellyanne Conway said over the weekend that former president Obama spied on Donald Trump through a microwave. At first this seemed ridiculous and I scoffed with a hearty “That bitch is crazy.”

But I’m re-thinking my position. I’ve taken a hard look at my own microwave and my suspicions have grown like mold on meat sold out of the back of a pick-up truck.

Why does the light come on while cooking something? Is that a signal to a passing satellite? Is the NSA bugging the photons of light to collect data on how I live? Do they know I dance to Abba in chaps made of Italian cold cuts?

I haven’t used my microwave in days because I no longer trust it. When I open the door I’m sure I hear voices:

“Begin data dump now.”

“Why is he cooking fish sticks in the microwave? They come out chewy this way.”

“Not Dancing Queen again.”

I also realized if they’re tapping my microwave then my can opener can’t be safe either. That whirring sound as the can spins around could contain my bank account information, my H&R Block password or my secret security questions into the Captain Jean-Luc Picard Fan Fiction Club, I-95 corridor chapter.

I’m starting to get really paranoid. The light bulb in the living room lamp is flickering. Is that a signal between the CIA and the DOD? Is NCIS Los Angeles feeding the contents of my medicine cabinet to NCIS New Orleans (note: the fungal cream that was prescribed was a misunderstanding)? Does MLB now know I prefer the NFL and what about my complete disinterest in the NHL and MLS?

This is getting serious. I’m not sleeping, all the lights are off. I was going to cook something in the oven but I’m sure I saw a satellite dish coming out of the propane tank outside. The light in the refrigerator snapped my picture as I reached for a soda and the box of baking soda told me to have water instead.

I think I’ll go talk to the cat for a while and calm down. Wait, did she always have those faint stripes in her fur or are those implants installed by an agent of the shadow government that’s living in my underwear drawer?

Lost and Found

It’s ok everyone, I found them. They had fallen behind the couch. 

I want to thank everyone who had suggestions on where my keys were, although not to Dan from Sheboygan who said to look up my butt. Very funny Dan.

Sheila from Niagara Falls was closest when she guessed they were under my fainting couch. I got rid of that though once my case of the vapors cleared up with my program of outdoor activities and pure thoughts.

Gary from New Mexico seemed to think a badger ate them. I don’t even have time to start with you Gary.

Jenny from South Dakota, along with 456 others said they didn’t care where my keys were. Well, that’s really nice. I was just asking for suggestions. I didn’t expect you to fly to my state, rent a car, drive to my home and physically join in the search. And if you had, I would have provided a selection of pepper jack cheeses, cured meats and gift bags filled with hand crafted soaps. So you all missed out.

Roman from Ocean City Maryland, about your suggestion that I dropped my keys into the “vast, crude-oil black skin of eternal nothingness that is life on this rotting planet”, uh . . . maybe you need to get outside more buddy. Get some vitamin D flowing through your system, have a Snicker’s bar, stop listening to Albert Camus books-on-tape, miss a meeting or two of the Nietzsche Admiration Society. Just a few ideas.

Stacey from Washington DC I think you had a typo. I think you meant “re-trace” your steps but it said “re-brace” your steps so I spent the entire weekend building a complicated system of cross-arms and footers for my staircase. Looks nice though.

Anyway, thanks again for helping me find my keys. Now if you have any thoughts on why I enjoy watching baseball, let me know.

Goodbye 2016

So.

2016 is almost over. For the world at large 2016 has been as Helen Mirren said “a big pile of shit”. Wars continue unabated in many parts of the world. The United Kingdom has caused an uproar by voting to exit the European Union. White Nationalists are rising in power in many countries and too many people don’t seem to care. Oh, and the United States voted an unstable, racist jar of orange marmalade in as their new president.

Then there are the deaths in the entertainment world. Many, many deaths. An unrelenting torrent from the Grim Reaper taking our music, our storytellers, our play actors. David Bowie, Prince, George Michael, Glenn Frey, Paul Kantner, Greg Lake, Keith Emerson,  Richard Adams, Harper Lee, Ken Howard, Doris Roberts, Garry Shandling, Carrie Fisher, Debbie Reynolds, Garry Marshall, Michel Cimino, Gene Wilder and Alan fucking Rickman. 2016 took Willy Wonka and Hans Gruber.

And this is only a sampling of those that passed. The real list is ridiculously long.

I can’t say on a personal level that it’s been too bad of a year and I hope that’s the case with anyone who reads this. But as a whole I think we’re all ready to move on. It’s time to say goodbye to 2016.

2016 . . . goodbye and good riddance, get out, hit the bricks, take a hike, beat cheeks, make like a tree and leave, skedaddle, vamoose, be gone, leave my sight and never return, there’s the door, so long, farewell, smell you later, ciao!, auf wiedersehen, au revoir, Sayonara, adios, jet, take off, roll, run, split, scoot, make tracks, hit the road, head east, skate, bounce, take a long walk off a short pier, turn the corner, depart, cut out, move off, sally forth, set sail, shove off, pack it up, vacate the premises, take your leave, disembark, make it so, reverse engines, follow the yellow brick road, toodle loo, let her rip tater chip and last but not least, get the fuck out!

When Cats take over the World

My cat’s name is Wild Colleen and she’s not much of a talker except at feeding time and then she repeats “Give me food, give me food, give me food”. My previous cat’s name was Phantom and he was a chatterbox. Every morning he wanted to talk about philosophy, why mac and cheese is a better side dish than cole slaw, how the Clemson Tigers can improve their running game, whatever.

You can imagine my surprise then this morning when Colleen comes in the bathroom jabbering away. I wasn’t even really awake yet but it had something to do with the volatility in the world financial markets due to the resignation of the Italian prime minister, the election of Donald Trump and the UK leaving the European Union. My response was something like “Huh? I already fed you.”

My indifference didn’t stop her though. She doesn’t trust the stability of the dollar, yen or euro and believes we should be going to a Little Friskies based economy. I thought she was joking and responded with “No you can’t have treats, you just ate.”

I was shocked when she showed me the email she had sent to the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank with her plan to replace all current currency with kibble. I spit out my toothpaste when she showed me their response asking for a detailed power point presentation of her plan including time tables for implementation, proposed interest rates for loans and would the substitution of cat nip be okay for some of the poorer countries. Again my response was inappropriate, “You’re getting fur all over my iPad.”

So now my evening of quiet reflection and Law and Order re-runs is being replaced with designing charts and tables on how the world economy can function with the payment of dry cat food for goods and services. Does anyone know how many pieces of Purina Cat Chow equals 1 ruble? This is going to take forever.

Negative Nancy Runs for Office

We only have a week before the national nightmare of this election cycle will be over. I should be breathing easier. Seven short days and we get at least a few months before the 2020 cycle begins. And yet I can’t relax. I’m so tired, like my blood has been replaced by Gummi bears.

I was writing a lot about the candidates during the primaries but I got lost in the swamp of stupidity and arrogance. It took me a long time to climb my way back out into the sunlight. And yet the sun isn’t as bright as it should be. Every day I’m battered by commercials on radio and television about this candidate or the other one. And it’s not just the presidential race, its state campaigns.

“Bill Fenstermacher eats pickles in bed!”

“Jane Woebegone makes cat videos in her attic!”

“Clancy Chigger voted against new hats for railroad conductors!”

“Bill Fenstermacher used to work as a carnival freak called ‘Billy the Goat Boy’!”

“Diane Loosescrew wants to tax your toe nail clippings!”

“Jane Woebegone shops at Target with your tax payer money!”

“Clancy Chigger knows what you need . . . because he’s a stalker!”

“Diane Loosescrew has an ingrown nose hair. She’ll never survive a full term!”

All day, every day, it’s a bloodbath of negativity splashed across my face. I grab a towel to wipe it away but it smears like melted chocolate until my whole head is covered in electoral slime.

“Larry Bungle sold crystal meth to panda bears!”

“Francine Fuss wants to give our jobs to migrant ornithologists!”

“Larry Bungle and his brother Harry share 1 pair of socks!”

“Francine Fuss feels fairly fine with festering fish fouling fresh water!”

Make it stop! It sticks to my skin and won’t wash off. All the yelling and name calling and lies and acting . . .

“Did you know Harold Megawealthyman bought his position as county lunatic?”

“Sarah Hatespeople wants to force us all to love pumpkin spice!”

Voter down! Voter down! I need platforms and policy papers. I need voting records and plans for strengthening infrastructure. Stop the insults! Stop lying! Stop with the fear-mongering! Dorothy? Dorothy, where’s Toto? We have to get home! The flying monkeys are coming, click your heels together!!!

Chuck Woolery on Line 3

I’ve been listening to ESPN radio all day at work so I hear the same commercials over and over again in between show segments. A new one popped up last week starring none other than Chuck “I used to be Famous” Woolery. You know you have a small advertising budget when you’re doing a radio spot, not TV, and the best voice guy you can afford is a) a game show host and b) hasn’t been popular in 20 years.

“We need a recognizable voice for our commercial. Who can we get?”

“An actor?”

“No, too expensive.”

“A singer?”

“They cost more than actors.”

“A game show host?”

“That’s it. Get me Wink Martindale.”

“Already tried, he turned us down.”

“Shit! All right, call Woolery.”

“He’s been in the lobby for a week looking for work.”

The product is Australian Dream Back Pain Cream. Not making that up, it’s an actual product for sale everywhere currency is exchanged for goods. My favorite part of the commercial is after the Chuckster names the product, his next words are “It’s real medicine.”

You hear that? Those are alarm bells. Those are Klaxons blaring, warning you about this product. When you see a commercial for cough syrup, medicated powder, Viagra, cholesterol meds, whatever, at no point do they ever say the words “its real medicine!”

If you have to tell me that it’s legitimate, you’ve actually told me it’s not.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Smith and I’ll be doing your surgery today. These are real surgical instruments!”

“I’m Mary, your nurse, I’m here to check your blood pressure. I have a license! I know what I’m doing!

“Hello, my name is Roger and I’ll be doing your taxes. I can count!”

“This is Captain Thomas and I’ll be your pilot today. I know what all these buttons do!”

Do all Australians dream of medicated ointment? Is the manufacturing of unguents a large part of the Aussie GNP?

“Oy, pass me another tube of non-greasy, anti-fungal, extra strength formula elbow joint cream.”

All these years my picture of Australia was blue water, beautiful women, kangaroos and Crocodile Dundee. It turns out, their providing employment for washed-up American emcees and curing our aches and pains with clean, no odor balm with a capricious rhyming name. They should have gotten Paul Hogan to do the commercial though.

“You call that a tube of arthritis cream? This is a tube of arthritis cream.”

Sarah, Is that You?

I’m a big fan of the singer Sarah McLachlan so I follow her official Facebook page where she posts song links, pictures and sometimes inspirational quotes. Last evening I found the quote she posted to be very meaningful so I liked it and then shared it. As I continued perusing FB, maybe 20 minutes later, I get a notification that I’ve received a friend request from Sarah McLachlan.

Hmmm.

That’s odd.

Internationally famous singer/songwriter Sarah McLachlan wants to be friends on FB with me, who, she’s not only never met, but has never interacted with in her life. Literally doesn’t know I exist. If you said my name to her she would tilt her head like a dog who wonders why the cat is eating his food.

Hmmm.

I went to the page and there were 2 pictures of Sarah, both taken directly from her website or FB fan page. And nothing else.

There was no information, no other pictures, no posts and no friends.

How stupid does someone think I am? I mean this is just insulting. I get friend requests all the time from obviously fake FB accounts but they usually have dozens of “friends”, a couple of pictures, maybe an innocuous post or two. And most importantly none were ever from someone who has started their own summer music festival.

I got a request once from a guy in an eastern European country. The entire page was in his own language and all his “friends” were eastern European, but he did not have 7 Billboard top 100 songs.

Being a man, I used to get a lot of requests from women in bikinis or lingerie advertising their web sites. But I’ve never gotten one from a woman who has appeared on David Letterman, the Tonight Show, SNL and has her own ASPCA commercial.

I don’t know who really sent the friend request or what their purpose was but I didn’t fall for it.

Now, having said that, if Sarah McLachlan created a new page just to be friends with me on FB and I rejected the friend request, then I’m probably out of the fan club.

Bucket List, Schmucket List

Many people talk about making bucket lists, things they want to do before they die. Some also refer to it as “living life to its fullest”. The problem is everyone’s list is kind of the same:

1. go skydiving

2. run a marathon

3. climb a mountain

4. kill a drifter with a gardening trowel

Always the same. Booooooring. Let’s try and liven those lists up. Here are some suggestions to make your bucket list original:

1. wrestle a badger for a piece of string cheese

2. replace your finger nails with thin slivers of Formica

3. eat only watermelon for a month

4. ride cross country with a long-haul trucker named Spider

5. escape with your life from the cab of an 18-wheeler driven by a man named Spider

6. give testimony against Spider in open court

7. weave baskets from your nose hair

8. win a Pulitzer Prize then denounce your life’s work as derivative and obfuscatory

9. fly first class, sitting in your seat naked and clipping your toenails

10. go into witness protection once Spider is released from his supermax prison

11. eat a T-bone steak covered in potato chips, rutabaga and molasses

12. shove 27 nickels in your ears

13. take a photo of your thumb every day for a year and then exhibit the pictures at a local art gallery

14. paint your entire house red, then have a dinner party and greet your guests with the phrase “Welcome to hell.”

15. kill Spider with a Cuisinart blade when he finds you after being released from prison

These are just a few of the things you can do to make completing your bucket list worthy of a story on a TV news show or the subject of one of those annoying internet lists that make you click “next” a thousand times to find out what that one actor from that TV show you used to watch looks like now only to find out he isn’t part of the list anyway and that fucking website tricked you into wasting 26 minutes of your life.

Now get out there and have fun!

A Web of Ridiculousness

I’m sharing my porch with a spider. He’s one of those that spin a web at night and when the sun comes up he’s gone.

I don’t like spiders. I admit they make me scream like a man with his junk caught in a bear trap that’s in a shark’s jaw being sat on by the 600 pound ghost of Haystacks Calhoun.

This spider is spinning his web off my porch roof so it’s up high enough that I can walk by and not get caught in it. The other day though I noticed the web was getting bigger. A few strands of silk were getting close to head height for me so we had to have a talk.

Me: I notice the web is expanding. We talked about this size issue before.

Spider: Sorry but me and the missus just had another brood of kids. I need to catch more food.

Me: How many kids do you have?

Spider: 670 at last count.

Me: They don’t live nearby do they?

Spider: God no! I’d never get any peace if the old lady and the kids were living with me. No, I have them set up across the street in your neighbor’s drainage spout. The rent’s a little high but we need the space.

Me: You pay rent?

Spider: Oh yeah. All the spouting in the area is controlled by the centipede family. Man those things creep me out.

Me: Yeah . . . me too. Anyway, remember our deal. The web stays high enough that I don’t run into any of it and end up dancing around the yard like a loon trying to get it off of me.

Spider: Right, right. I’m trying to only widen it but I had to spin a support beam down farther. There’s still clearance.

Me: It’s close though.

Spider: I’ll watch it. By the way, my wife really likes the way your living room is decorated.

Me: How . . . how would she know . . . ?

Spider: The window! She looked through the window!

Me: Is she in my living room right now?

Spider: No, no!

Me: Ahhhh!

Spider: Margaret! Run!

Oh yeah, that web is coming down soon.

Suppertime Shenanigans

I bought some salmon steaks at the grocery store last week. I like salmon a lot but rarely buy it because it’s expensive and I’m cheap; a combination that’s like matter and anti-matter or David Hasselhoff and music.

While at work yesterday I decided to make one of the filets for supper so I got on my ipad and searched for a recipe. I found one that sounded good and was simple, saved the page and went back to work.

When I got home before I could make supper I had to do dishes. They were everywhere; in the sink, on the stove, on the counter. It looked like one of my weekly recreations of Mel’s Diner from the old TV show Alice where I dress the cat up like Flo and try to get her to meow so it sounds like “Kiss my grits”. The scratches on my face and neck indicate she doesn’t enjoy this diversion as much as I do.

With a clean kitchen I thawed out one of my salmon filets and then pulled up the web page with the recipe on. I received this message:

Woops! This page is down for maintenance

What? The one recipe I chose out of dozens, just a few hours ago, and now I can’t get to the page?

The cat laughed at me. The salmon steak chuckled. David Hasselhoff guffawed from his throne made of money in his mansion made of German gold records.

So I had to search for another recipe. The first one required me to wrestle my fresh salmon from the claws of a bear . . . so . . . let’s skip that one. Hmm, this one asks for 33 different spices including oil of sausage casings and shavings from a roasted persimmon. Nah. Oh, here’s a good one. Wait, step 3 is a sacrifice to Molech.

I gave up and dug out some recipes I keep in a folder on a bookshelf. There I found a quick, easy marinade. I mixed it up, marinated the salmon and then grilled it. Delicious. David Hasselhoff called to ask for a bite.

Of course, now my sink has dishes in it again. Time for another re-enactment. Here kitty, kitty.

TP for the Q of E

After a bike ride on the trail the other day I used a port-a-potty at the edge of the parking lot. There were two identical plastic enclosures on the wall. One held toilet paper, the other you couldn’t see what was inside and it had a padlock on it with a message “Do Not Remove”. Made me wonder what exactly was in the plastic case. Is this where they keep the “good” toilet paper? You know, like when you were a kid and Mom always had the “good” china and silverware you only used on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Imagine the Queen of England visiting our area and during a tour of the local farmland and hoi polloi, nature calls to her. She stops in at the trail station and one of her retinue announces

“The Queen requires to drop a deuce. Please issue your finest papier toilette.”

Some maintenance man named Butch with a six day growth of beard and wearing a t-shirt stained with wing sauce steps forward.

“Uh, yessir. Give me, uh, one minute.”

Butch pulls a flap of skin away from his left ear and slips out a small key made of cut crystal. He steps into the port-a-potty, opens the padlock and lifts out a roll of 34-ply toilet paper flecked with specks of gold. He sits the roll on a shelf. It begins playing a Debussy piano concerto. The tube inside, made of wood taken from the limb of a 1000 year old tree in the Schwarzwald of Baden-Wurttemberg, sprays the area with jasmine scented mist.

Also in the container is a hermetically sealed jar containing butterflies, the laughter of small children and light captured from supernova SN 1006. Butch removes the lid and the portable bathroom becomes incandescent and pastoral. A privy fit for royalty.

Then again, the plastic box might just contain some back-up rolls of Joe’s 1-Ply Shitter Paper. 

Why am I Surrounded by Idiots?

Case #1  I had gone to a Royal Farms store in Ocean City Maryland to pick up an out of state newspaper, Fruit Stripe gum and bailing twine. I also thumbed through the latest issue of “Independently Wealthy Long-Legged Nordic Women Looking for Older Men: Eastern Shore Edition” but decided not to spend the money. When I left I needed to walk across the parking lot to get to my SUV. There was a pick-up truck parked next to me with his headlights on and motor running, but he hadn’t moved yet.

I had a feeling he was going to pull out at any moment because he was holding up a sign that read “I’m going to pull out at any moment!” I hesitated. He still didn’t move so I began walking toward my vehicle. He waits until I’m in the middle of the lot before driving forward and cutting in front of me, almost running me over.

Case #2  I stopped at a yard sale last Friday. The house was at the side of a busy road but the shoulder was wide enough to set up a traveling carnival on. I checked out the yard sale, then played a few games of Pop-a-Shot, rode the Himalaya and ate some cotton candy. When I was done I got back in my SUV.

I started the engine but didn’t pull away because I was inputting an address into my GPS. A woman in a mini-van pulls in front of me. She proceeds to pull forward, back up, pull forward, back up, pull forward, back up, pull forward, back up . . . WHAT ARE YOU DOING? PARK THE DAMN VAN! When she is finally parked, she has backed up so close to my vehicle that now I have to back up to pull out into traffic. Then when I pull out, she chooses that precise moment to fling her door open so I almost clip her van door off.

Case #3  I went to a local supermarket which I won’t name. I’ll just say the name sounds like “wise” but is spelled Weis. I needed taco shells, maple syrup and more bailing twine. After finding my items I walked to the check-out lines. There were three registers with lights on but no one there to ring me up. I discovered why when I saw a gaggle (is “gaggle” correct, or is it a “pack”, a “shitpile” or perhaps an “annoyance” of cashiers?) of cashiers standing around talking. I stood still for a moment. One of them caught sight of me and looked up. She had a puzzled expression on her face. “Why is there someone with merchandise in their hands standing at my register? Do I have gum in my mouth or am I chewing on my tongue? Huh, I just got hit by a box of taco shells.”

She eventually turned back to the conversation with her co-workers that I’m hoping was about when they thought they would be fired for being incompetent. I had the twine wrapped around my fists ready to choke all three of them, but instead I went to the only line with someone working and sighed heavily.

Why am I surrounded by idiots?