You've Lost That Swinging Feeling

There must be fifty ways to leave your lover, fifty ways to leave your lover.. (Paul Simon)

Maybe we should be looking for 50 ways to please our lovers. (If not for Jane, Tarzan would have never learned his trademark yell while swinging through the jungle trees.) That's gotta hurt!

Jane and Tarzan were the original swingers. It is a little known fact that Tarzan was actually a Hillbilly during his informative years. He met Jane at a 4-H fair one summer. Jane was running a charity kissing booth. When our hero approached the booth he was instantly smitten. Jane was not impressed by the young man until he plopped down a $50 bill. Then it was love at first flick!

They worked hard over the years to keep their relationship successful. Jane knew that the way to Tarzan's heart was through his stomach, as well as through his "grape vine." She learned the fine art of redneck cooking and was able to take advantage of the abundant road kill that could be found in the elephant trails in the jungle. She even bought him one of those state-of-the-art redneck grills .

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Whenever Jane would get into nasty moods, especially when he was out all night with his gorilla friends, Tarzan would buy her a gift certificate for one of those specialty gourmet diners.

She usually felt a lot better after getting pampered at the fancy restaurants, which would put her in the mood for some music at some hopping night club.

Then he would treat her to a concert featuring their favorite group. He would sing along to the song, "Easy To be Hard," and it would be all she could do to keep her hands away from his loin cloth.

In their later years, they eventually succumbed to modern conveniences. A cell phone made life easier for the apeman when he would call home if he was going to be out late with the ape guys. The addition of laptop computers made communication between the two a lot easier.

To enhance their sex life, Tarzan and Jane often came up with clever and inventive ways to keep their bedroom activities interesting and exciting. Because of his superior athletic abilities, Tarzan found that "Kiss My Nose" usually got the best responses from his wife.

Because of the openness of their jungle lifestyle, Jane and Tarzan had little difficulty teaching their kids about the mynah birds and the killer bees. Most of you are familiar with Boy, but few know of their daughter, Girl.

With their parent's open mating habits, the two kids grew up and had very healthy sexual relationships with their future partners.

If your relationship isn't as hot as it used to be, you couldn't go wrong taking notes from Tarzan the Apeman and his wife Jane.

There must be fifty ways to please your lover, fifty ways to please your lover...

(The images in this post all came from Coops Jokes an exellent site with lots of funny material.)

No.501

Manure Occureth

They say a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. I have found that an archive of 500 postings began with a single sentence: It Occurred To Me. I don't know that I actually set a goal when I first sat at this keyboard and siphoned from my brain enough thoughts to fill a screen. In seven days, it will be the first anniversary of my blog. In the interim between today and January the 20th, I have started to plan the blog for that date. I could take the easy way out I suppose, deferring to rerun one my favorite posts from the previous 499, but it is not what I wish. I want something original and of course, funny. If I haven't done that to date, what makes me think I can post such a piece then?

It has been both fun and challenging to come up with something to post everyday. Indeed, since I started blogging I have managed to average 1.1 posts per day. There were very few days that I did not post at least once, but there are several times that I put up 2 or 3 postsings in the same day. I have probably on many occasion sacrificed quality for quantity.

I can guess that like a lot of you, I have had a desire to write ever since I was the proverbial knee-high to a grasshopper. I reveled in writing assignments in my school days, while my fellow students would moan and groan when the teachers' gave them to us.

It didn't take me long to realize that I preferred to interject humor into my writings whenever I could. One of the first things I can remember writing was for a sixth-grade History class. The assignment was to make up some ficticious character or event in Colonial America that had an affect on the outcome of the Revolutionary War. My offering featured the young George Washington hurling the dollar across the Potomac River. The coin struck one Benedict Arnold, who was standing on the other side, in the head. While not diagnosed as a serious injury at the time, it ultimately caused a blood clot. Complications from that clot in the end, caused the older Arnold to have mean and misguided thoughts. Those thoughts, of course, led to the man becoming a traitor. I received the treasured Gold Star for my effort and my paper was displayed on the hallway bulletin board.

Because of that paper, I have tended to lean to hyperbole, satire, and parodies ever since. Having been raised in rural West Virginia, I often tap into those colloquial roots. Someday I want to explore the possibilty of delving into the allegory. I have grazed the surface with allegorical sentences and paragraphs, and hope to someday write something Orwellian or Swift-like. Ah, but that will be someday.

Thus it is, that this my 500th post will be less than a memorable one, but will serve as a statement of goals that I never established when I first started blogging nearly one year ago. As always one goal will remain constant, and that is to bring a smile to the face of anyone who chances to read anything I post.

Thank you, those of you who have read my blog and left the kind comments that have given me in turn the confidence and the drive to continue. Without out you, these posts would only be empty and lifeless ramblings of a wannabe writer. I hope I can return the favor and continue to offer another 500 posts and at least 500 grins.

No.500

Blazing Sandals

Allah Oop Hammond Organi, Jr. had always wanted to perform a courageous act in the name Allah. He envied those who went before him. He wanted to shake their hands and get their autographs, for surely they would be collectors items someday. He might even be able to sell them on e-Bay and earn enough to buy himself a camel or two, and if there was enough left over he could get a pair of those new designer sandals.

He was inspired by his recent hadj to the sacred Mecca Records. For two torturous weeks he had ridden his camel through the desert. While eating sand and muching on Matzo balls he had experienced an epiphany. The next time he went on one of these trips, he was going to lease a camel with two humps. He could not count how many times he'd fallen off his ride trying to stay balanced on the one hump.

He didn't care what they said about the traditional clothing worn by all his Arab brethern, he was freakin' sweltering out there in that hot sun. The useless rag he was supposed to wear upon his head only made his head sweat all the more. So it was that on his second day out, he changed into his Tommy Hilfinger knock-off jeans and his prized Beavis & Butthead tee shirt. His iPod was loaded with the greatest hits of his favorite Arab music, The Very Best of Sam the Sham & the Pharaohs . He also had the inspiring Ahab the Arab and Mr. Sandman to sing along with on his portable Karaoke machine.

The practice of gathering camel dung and letting it dry for use as fuel during the cold desert nights seemed like a shitty practice for Allah Oop. He had observed his father spending a half hour trying to light the camel flapjacks on many an occasion. He was appalled listening to his father use such cuss words as Bush, Clinton and Sara Lee when the shit cakes failed to ignite. He was glad he had ordered a Zippo lighter from Wal-Mart. Of course, one had to always sit up wind from those hadj cakes. One day he discovered that he could toss them like a frisbee, just like the ruling sect, The Rednecks in America did with cattle dung.
With practice he soon became quite accurate hurling his camel discs. One day, when he came upon two vultures feasting upon another less fortunate pilgrim who was wearing regular Arab clothing, he hurled one of the dung discs and took out two of the scavengers. It wasn't quite KFC, but then again, it wasn't Kansas either.

He was nearing sleep one night while reading the back of his Corn Flakes box when he began to wonder if his father had given him the right advice. Before he had set out on his hadj, the old man had told him to remember to read every night and at every prayer break. His father spoke so fast that half the time, he could not understand the jibberish the old man was slinging. Every one of his friends were reading the Koran. Why did his father tell him to read a Corn Flakes box?

He never did find his Mecca, but to save face he did like any normal young Arab, he made love to his camel and declared himself enlightened. He later discovered that Mecca Records had moved to Baghdad, where Saddam Husein had promptly converted it to a brothel. He vowed that if he ever went out on another hadj, that was where he would go, for now Meca would truely be rewarding.

Years later, he would migrate to the United States and settle in Shebogan. He would gain fame as a Scrabble champion due to his extensive knowledge of the game's acceptable Arabic words, like Haj, Hajj, Hadj, Hadji, Hajji, Jihad, mullah, and fatwa to name a few. Eventually he had to change his name. It seems that a certain camel had filed a paternity suit against him. It is rumored that he is now a millionaire after buying several gas stations and twenty Seven-Eleven convenience stores.

(Disclaimer: If you are an FBI, CIA, or NSA operative reading this blog, calm down and don't get your panties in a knot! This post is no threat to National Security. It is a parody, it is satire, and it is intended to be funny. Your search of key words like Hadj and Jihad brought you here to this site of superior comedic writing. Think of it, all I am trying to do is to increase my readership. Guess what oh secretive covert ones, it worked!)

No.499

Dog Days of Dating

To the casual eye, it would seem that dogs live the Life Of Riley. They have been adopted as man's best friend. They are loyal to their bipedal masters, and serves as his protector.

Many is the man who has watched with envious wonder as the male dog easily licks its testicles. In an age-old joke, we are posed the question, "Why does a dog lick his testicles?" The answer, of course, was "Because he can!" The joke has, however, been updated with the new punch line, "Because he can't make a fist."

If we were to step back and and observe our canine friends in a less cavalier manner, we will see that they too face some of the same dilemmas as their masters.

Take dating for instance. Again, like their human counterparts, they also face tough standards and expectations. Some men can only dream of the canine's blatant disregard for monogamous relationships. For all we know, they too have tough standards and expectations to live up to.

Unlike human relationships, dogs are not subjected to the specter of commitment. They are not expected to settle down and tie themselves to one mate and only one mate. For the most part, running the household and parenting is usually left to the distaff member of the union.

Indeed, they are not required to hold down a job to earn money to pay the bills. They aren't expected to go straight home after work. The female doesn't worry about her mate's fidelity. The male doesn't worry about image and is not especially known to show good taste. The sight, and more significantly, the scent of the female has been known to distract him from responsibilites.

While men can be boys, dogs can be puppies. They too can go out and raise hell and get into trouble. A night out with boys can end up with a visit to the nearest precinct.

With the human male it is wine, women and song. With the dog it is toilet water, bitches and baying at the moon, and certainly not in that order.

After all has been said and done, it is really quite simple why the dog is man's best friend. Ignoring the species, man and dog are actually very much alike!

No.498

One Ringy-Dingy, Two Ringy-Dingies

The people standing at the crowded subway station stood looking about dumbfounded. The curious sound could be heard above the cacophanous roar of their otiose chatter. Some could be seen glancing nervously around them. Others could be seen shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Still others raised their tabloids to shield their faces from inspection. A few were whistling off-key. A few more stood ashen, the countenance of their faces almost lifeless. Several others had turned up the volume of their iPods to avoid hearing the monotone drone that was assaulting the commuters' ears.

There was a chasm, a parting in the sea of humanity near the center of the station. One individual, suddenly a persona non gratis, stood in the center of a growing clearing. Had it not been for the tintinnabulary, an onlooker may have thought the person had been guilty of some olfactory offense or was hygienically challenged. Aware of, but not reacting to his sudden exile, the man calmly produced a cell phone, pushed a button and placed the device to his ear.

A chorus of shrugged shoulders and bewildered faces slowly returned to their zombie-like posture, that of emotionless commuters. Some could be seen raising talismanic idols to their lips; perhaps they were offering thanks for their salvation from the demonic cries they'd experienced. Upon these idols were brandished the names of their respective dieties. The faithful were seeking audience with Starbucks, Dunkin' Donuts, Krispy Kreme and a host of lesser known Gods.

Still they gave the man wide berth even as he returned his phone to its holster at his belt. Decried as a leper, it was now he who felt discomfort. A lone tree in a clearing, the fleeting glimpses might have come from the eyes of a pack of canines looking to mark their territory, he realized seclusion even in a crowd. Nowhere can a man feel loneliness as in a mob. It was then that the very earth seem to tremble. The distant rumbling was drawing nearer, the decibles expotentially increasing to intolerable levels. There was an onrush of wind which carried aloft debris before it. He shuddered at the sacrilege that befell his eyes, for in that debris were desecrated remnants of the very idols he'd seen being worshipped in the crowd.

He stood fast, allowing the masses to surge forward, lest he be swept away in that sea of humanity. For what seemed an eternity he watched in awe as the multitude disappeared into the gaping jaws of the subway cars. With uneasy relief he watched the train disappear and slowly shrink under the magical effects of perspective into the tunnel.

Some will brush it off as an urban legend, but still others will long talk about the strange man they encountered that day on the subway. Of those who were not there, some will gasp in astonishment, while others will scoff in disbelief. Some will point to the spot in the station where the man was purported to have stood. The number of people who were actually there, will in the end exceed the capacity of the station.

A legend will have been born, books will have been written, and movies will have been produced about the day a man's telephone actually began to ring. Someday, who knows because stranger things have happened, someone else will have the unwavering nerve to install an ancient ringing telephone sound as their ring tone.

No.497

Origins Of The Chat Room

The phenomenon known as Chat Rooms is not a new concept. It turns out that chat rooms have been around since the beginning. The news of the discovery of ancient personal computers has been kept low key. The team of archeologists who found these relics were fearful that the revelation of the startling discoveries would turn the religious world on its ears.

There were also worries about bitter copyright and patent law suits. Surely Apple Computers would cite their obvious connection to the apple and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Microsoft magnate, Bill Gates would insist that he was a direct descendant of Pearly Gates.

Being careful to avoid revealing in software details and working under the philosophy of the time-honored "Finders Keepers" creed, the discovery team has released a transcript of what is believed to be the very first chat room room conversation. The service was provided by the now defunct EOL, Eden on Line.

Hi. I'm Eve.
Hi, Eve, I'm Adam. I wear a size 6 leaf. I like apples and gardening.
Eve: You must be new on line. I have been chatting in here for weeks by myself.
Adam: I was avoiding the chat rooms. You never know who you are talking with.
Eve: LOL! I once talked with someone one day, and I think he was a snake in the grass.
Adam: What is "LOL?" Remember I am new to chat rooms.
Eve: What, were you born yesterday?
Adam: As a matter of fact, I was dust of the ground only yesterday.
Eve: That's so weird. I keep having this dream that I was a rib.
Adam: I cannot help but wonder what you look like with clothes on.
Eve: Hehe! It's a shame we don't have webcams yet.
Adam: Well I only wear a leaf when I am on line. I need two hands to type.
Eve: I so know what you mean. But I like to use two hands for other things too.
Adam: Other things? Oh, yeah. You can use two hands on yours?
Eve: Of course, silly. Don't you have more than one?
Adam: Well, uh ... No.
Eve: I know this sudden, but maybe we should meet?
Adam: (No response.)
Eve: Hello? You still there? Damn. He must have dial-up.
Adam: Sorry. My leaf fell off!
Eve: Yes, we should definitely meet!
Adam: (No response.)
Eve: Wouldn't you know it? Even the first man is afraid of a commitment.
Adam: Sorry. Remember, I need two hands to type.
Eve: Hehe. Ah, yes.
Adam: Uh, when and where can we meet?
Eve: How about over at that big apple tree?
Adam: Sure. In about ten minutes say?
Eve: Perfect. That'll give me plenty of time to doll myself up.
Adam: Wait. How will I know you?
Eve: (No Response.)
Adam: Damn! I can't go there if I can't recognize her. (Disconnect: Goodbye.)
Eve: Hello? Hello? Just my luck, I'm going to be the first woman ever stood up.

It was there that the files ended reported a representative of the archeologists. What ever happened whenever those two people hooked up, if they in fact ever did, can only be subject to debate. The remainder of the files had been corrupted. They said they will attempt to restore some of the other files, reasoning that even partial files could prove valuable in the relentless search for the history of man.

At the time of this writing, one of the researchers said there were pieces of additional chat room conversations which they would release as soon as they are compiled and sorted into the proper time frames. He did say that one file seemed to be discussing a large boat and a zoo.

One thing is definite though, man and his interaction with computers and women predates most of the recorded history we have been taught in school through the years. The data seems to suggest that the computer may have disappeared when the Neanderthals began to be integrated into Cro-Magnon neighborhoods and school systems. It seems history does indeed repeat itself.

No.496

When The Cookies Crumble

When trying to access the page to create a new post, I received a message that said: "We've detected an error, we suggest that you clean your cache of cookies."

That got me to thinking ... Just what happens to those disabled cookies anyway? Do they go to an Old Cookies Home? Do they receive decent care? Are they offered rehabilitation?

Before Old Hoss realizes there is an oppurtunity to make a pile here, I think that maybe I should take the initiative this time. I'll set up shop designing and manufacturing products for these poor disabled cookies.

The next time there is a cookie-tastrophe for these poor all but forgotten little guys, The Pointmeister will be there with a line of cookie crutches, canes, wheelchairs, and various sundries. I'll even have a line of prostheses for gingerbread men and women who have suffered the trauma of missing limbs. There will be plenty of IV equipment for emergency transfusions of dough. There will be treadmills, exercise bikes, rowing machines, and an olympic cookie sized pool filled with milk. As I am writing this, I'm already working on the plans for a tiny cookie scooter.

Of course, I will have to build an Old Cookies Home that will make them feel at home. Where else would disabled cookies feel at home, but in a brand new gingerbread house? Should any of them happen to go to that cookie shop in the sky during their stay there, they can always be immortalized as a roofing slate or a garden patio.

I have been receiving applications for the staff position openings. Pending a background check, the chief physician and head nurse will probably be Mr. Hansel and Ms. Gretel. They both list in their resumes extensive experience working in gingerbread environments.

Hopefully I can make a pile of dough of my own on this undertaking. I wouldn't want to end up with a worthless pile of unkneadable dough.

No.495

All Towers Will be Violated

On a recent syndicated rerun of The Family Feud the survey question was: "Other than purchasing one, what are the top five ways for you to get a car?"
....The following are the correct answers. (Can you guess number one?)

1) __________ (29)
2) Lease.......... (27)
3) Rent ............(18)
4) Borrow .......(13)
5) Win............. ( 9 )

Survey said! Steal it.

I don't know about you, but it got me thinking about about the 100 people used to conduct their survey. Did they have a weapons check at the door?
What about the other four people, what did they say that didn't make the top five? Inherit it? Have it given to you? Use the parents' car? Would carjack be the same as steal?

What if I were to conduct my own survey to come with some questions for The Family Feud ?



With all the new gadgets coming out, what gadget would you like to see?

To one innocent looking thug standing on a street corner at 3 AM: A pistol with a built in camera phone.

To a director of Human Resources for a large corporation :
A machine that would tell me if they are lying on their resumes.


To an airline pilot:
Less complicated dials and guages for us to monitor.






On the lighter side, in a survey of what computer geeks wanted, the number one answer was:

Ouch! That was so bad! Maybe I should delete it? Nah! If I had to suffer uploading it, you can look at it too.

Now if I were surveyed about needed technology, I think I would want better batteries that would last forever.






I also think we could use some technology to enable our modems to be safe from viruses rather than depend on virus scans:

Why even beggars on the street are looking for advances in technology:

What questions would you ask about advancements in technology?

And your survey said ...?

No.494

Grin and Beer It

Beer

I think that I shall never hear
A poem as lovely as "Have a beer."

A beer whose uncapped top is prest
Against my lips, sweet flowing zest.

A beer that looks at me in a way
That I lift its amber form and say,

A beer that may in summer wear
The sweat of condensation like hair,

Upon whose bosom ice has lain
And intimately cooled as with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me here,

But only a brewmeister can make a beer.

(The above exercise of poetic freedom is not without appologies to Joyce Kilmer.)

If an expert in nuclear fission praises and drinks beer, who are we to argue the point?

A little known fact to many is that Beer is a known aphrodisiac.

Remember, at closing time beer helps to make a lot of people have a better night. It makes no guarantees about the next morning, however.

Isn't it interesting that beer has been helping ugly people have sex nearly a 100 years longer than its been helping them get dates?

Even south of the Mason-Dixon Line, you will find that many people practice recycling in an effort to keep the environment clean. And if not for beer and its by-product the empty, this redneck family would not have been able to decorate or to have put up a Christmas tree this past year.

Just how many college students do you think could possibly survive the rigors of classes and studies if it weren't for beer to keep their minds clear and focused?

Sometimes famous quotations say it the best and in closing, I leave you the inspiring words of a very wise Roman, Nunc Est Bibendum, which succinctly translates to "It's time to drink."

No.493

Chicken Poop For The Sole

It's been forty plus days since Thanksgiving Day, and Steve has been looking everywhere for that bird!

When I was a young lad we used to spend a lot of time at our Grand Parents farm in Roane County. Their farm was so far back in the hills, Gramps said they had had to pipe the sunshine in. He used to say that Amma, the nearest town, was so small that the city limits were on the same sign post.

Those of you familiar with rural Appalachia, know that phrases were uttered rapid fire. It was like some sentences were just one long word: "Sofarbackinthehillstheyhadtopipethesunshinein," and "Thetownwassosmallthecitylimitswereonthesamesignpost."

All of us grandchildren were often referred to as "whipper snappers." Even though we were just kids, when there were chores asked of you, you did them. There was to be no playing around until the chore was completed. If you did get caught playing around, Gramps had a very colorful way of getting your attention, "BoyI'mgonnakickyourasssofarupbewteenyourshouldersyou'regonnahaveto-takeyourshirtofftotakeacrap." The translation for you unfamiliar with Hillbilly jive is, " Boy, I'm gonna kick your ass so far up between your shoulders you're gonna have to take your shirt off to take a crap!"

One of the chores we were sometimes asked to do was to gather some eggs from the hen house. Easy enough, right? There shouldn't be anyway to get into trouble gathering eggs, right? Well you are going to have a chore trying to convince me and Matilda. Ah yes, Matilda, the terror of the hen yard, always had other ideas. To us kids, Matilda was the biggest baddest thing on that farm. No, we weren't afraid of a chicken. We were not chicken chickens.

You see, Matilda was a large, nasty white goose. We learned a long time before that you never played around the chicken coop. If you failed to obey that commandment, Matilda wasn't too far to reprimand you for your sin. That damned goose wouldn't stop chasing you until you either got inside the coop and closed the door or climbed up the nearest apple or cherry tree. Hah, people use German Shepherds and Dobermans as watch dogs! They couldn't hold a candle to Matilda, so relentless was she in her pursuit. Now, imagine you are the one not in a tree, but the one inside the coop. Your mission, should you have accepted it, was to grab some eggs from the roosts, dodging several pecking beaks from the hens and then (gulp) go back out into the hen yard - and run like hell!

All the while, unbeknownst to us, our parents and Grandparents would be in the house looking out the window laughing their collective asses off at the spectacle. In time, we learned that they were testing our mettle. They wanted to see how inventive we would become. In the meantime, I began to look at it as a challenge. After a fashion, we figured out that if we worked in tandem, we could at least manage to actually get some eggs with loosing them or breaking any. That meant one of us had to be the decoy and get to goose to chase him, while the other went to the coop. Well wouldn't you know it? That goose wasn't born yesterday. If there were any flies on Matilda, they were paying rent.

If it didn't beat all, that goose realized the one with the basket was the one she should be focused on. So much for plan A. Even if we both made a rush to the hen house, the goose followed the basket. One day we tried a little razzle-dazzle ala football, and attempted a lateral. I'll be damned if that stupid goose didn't intercept the basket. The basket slipped over its neck and gave us a chance. We gathered the eggs and walked calmly out of the hen yard. Matilda was honking angrily try to shake that basket from her body. When we were halfway to the house she managed to rid herself of the basket and stood honking and glaring at us through the fence.

After our victory, we marched proudly into the house with our booty. We were surprised to get scolded instead of being praised for besting Matilda. You see, we forgot to wipe our feet on the rug outside before coming inside. We were tracking chicken poop from the soles of our shoes through the kitchen.

We never again actually beat Matilda at her game after that day, but we did eventually receive a certain measure of victory one Christmas. You might say Matilda was the guest of honor for that Christmas feast.

From then on, there never was any chicken poop for the sole!

No.492

Peace of Ass

All I wanted to do when I got home was to park myself in that recliner. I wanted some peace of ass. I wanted to sit in peace on my ass. I ached from head to toe. It appeared that one of those bugs going around finally got to me.

I had been keeping a couple of steps ahead of these bugs for a week or two. There must have been a banana peel in my path. When I saw that cloud formation, I should have realized my healthy days were numbered.

Only two days before I had been out in a rain storm. We were thankful it wasn't snow in our area. By the time the day was over, I was soaked to the bone. It was that day that I attribute to being sick. It has been lingering with me for over a week now.

As a result of not feeling exactly chipper, I haven't done much blog reading. That means I'll have a lot of catching up to do. Last night I went to sleep at 10 PM! That was the first time I'm gone to bed before midnight in years. I had already left a message on my boss' voice-mail I would be staying home. I guess my body needed the sleep. I didn't wake up until 11 AM!

I stocked up on a variety of cold medicines; cough syrups, cold and flu capsules, Thera-flu, Con Tac, etc. The combination of the medical expenditures and filling up my gas tank the day before left my piggy bank looking rather sickly. It was a couple of days before payday, then and only then will he get some sustenance.

Try as I may, I have been unable to come up with anything remotely humorous, it seems the cold/flu has dampened my creativity. So I am left more than ever to try to generate a giggle or two from some harvested pictures and cartoons. I'm afraid originality is currently in short supply.

I suppose I could throw in joke:

Two old ladies were standing outside the nursing home where they lived. They were having a cigarette and sharing gossip. Just then it started to rain. One of them pulls out a condom, and after opening the pack ships off the end of it. Next she slips it over her cigarrete and resumes smoking. ....The second lady says, "What's that?"
....The first lady replies, "It's a condom, it keeps my cigarettes from getting wet in the rain."
...."Where did you get it?"
...."You can get them down at the drugstore."
....The next day the lady hobbles into town to the drug store and announced to the Pharmacist, she wanted a box of condoms. The man, a little embarassed looks at her strangely - the woman was in her 80's. Deciding it was none of his business, he asks of her, "What brand do you prefer?"
...."It doesn't matter son, as long as it fits a camel."
....The Pharmacist fainted.

Well, the meds are kicking in again. I'll turn in for now. Hopefully my sense of humor will have returned by the morrow. Perhaps I will have had all the peace of ass that I need.

No.491

Polyunsaturated Phat

If polyunsaturated fat is so bad for us, then why can't we buy food that contains polysaturated fat? I think we have been duped, truth be told. I think some comedy writer made up the word so an audience could heckle anyone who told a silly joke about parrots.

What about a Plutocracy? Could it be that the same comedy writer wants us to think that Mickey Mouse's dog is in charge? Well, I for one know better. We are ruled by an autocracy! General Motors runs the whole shebang!

You know what life really is? Life is trying to ride a unicycle with a flat tire.

Did you ever want to be somebody who could "rest on one's laurels?" Don't bother. I tried it once and the lady yelled from her window, "Get the hell off my shrubs!"

If uxoricide is the murder of a wife by the husband, then it must follow that suicide is the self-murder of a boy named Sue. Which would mean that cyanide is the self-murder of Sy Sperling when his hair transplants fell out.
Sorry, I sometimes wade into some profound waters and get swept away. (So far I haven't been swept under Sy's rug.)

Ever notice how famous speeches and quotes are sometimes recycled by politicians to get attention? I submit the following: "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country." - John Fitzgerald Kennedy
"Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what you can do for your country club." - George Walker Bush

I find it interesting that the word subbookkeeper has four consecutive sets of double letters. I find it even more interesting that there are no bookkeepers on submarines.

For some reason I cannot explain, everytime I hear the word succubus, I have this image of someone with some serious burnt lips from an exhaust pipe.



No.490

Home Is Where The Heartburn Is

One of my wife's Christmas gifts this year was the book , Maxine, Yelling It Like It Is, by the creator of the cartoon, John Wagner.

The cartoon at the left was harvested somewhere on the web, but I forget where.

I am probably over-stepping the boundaries of copywright infringement, but the following are a few of the Maxine-isms from that book. Indeed, the title of this posting was the name of one of the chapters.

I can't use a cell phone in the car. I have to keep my hands free for making gestures.

My idea of rebooting is kicking somebody in the butt twice.

A three-course breakfast - coffee, cream and sugar.

There's a reason kitchen rhymes with bitchin'.

Work is just something I'm doing until I win the lottery.

Know what tastes great on a veggie burger? Lettuce, tomato and beef.

I make it my policy to never take work home with me ... Unless office supplies count.

I like to do things around the house ... Sit around it ... Walk around it ... Lie around it.

My body is a temple where junk food goes to worship.

My soul's had enough chicken soup. It wants some chocolate.

Wouldn't you pay just about anything for a telemarketer's home phone number?

Everything looks so tiny when you're flying, especially the food they stick in front of you.

I can't decide which piece of exercise equipment to buy and never use.

I do my housework in the nude. It gives me incentive to clean the mirrors as quickly as possible.

If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything. Just make a crude gesture.

No.489

Is There A Codger In The House?

'Tis the season for returns ... Fa-la-la-la-la-la-lol

The kids must think us old fools.

My wife didn't want the cutlery set our daughter bought for her for Christmas. When asked why she said, "I have more knives now than I'll ever use. And besides, you can't close the kitchen drawers now as it is!" (Because they are full of the knives you bought the last two years.) "Okay, I'll return them."

I received the two obligatory packs of wrong-size underwear. "They are too small, daughter. I haven't had a 30-inch waist since you were two years old." She said, "So what if they are a little tight. You can still wear them, can't you?" I glanced over at my wife and answered, "I suppose I'd look sexy to your mother with everything in a tighter package." Said my wife, "Return them!" She said, "Okay I'll return them."

Our daughter, God bless her, is a good kid. The same can be said for her husband of almost three months. They both yearn for the traditional holidays. Alas, I feel sorry for them because those days are long gone. They will have to establish newer traditions of their own. We had to. Happiness and love were never in short supply while we were raising her. In fact, I'd say she turned out none the worse for wear.

Both she and her husband like to have the two families together for the holidays. Ah, therein lies the rub. For thirty plus years that was how our holidays played out. One family would host the festivities while everyone one else would travel to our place, laden with gifts and goodies. The next holiday would find us as the wayfarers. This practice alternated between houses and holidays year in and year out. My daughter grew up amidst those travelling side shows of holiday celebrating. I cannot find fault with her wanting to maintain traditions.

It happened in October, when our fallen arches and the leaves from the trees on the ground were evident, that there were changes advancing before the winter winds. Our baby girl was married and starting a life of her own. While she will always be our daughter, she is starting the next chapter of her life. Each ensuing chapter will be rife with memories and traditions of their own. She cannot see it now, but someday she will.

It was strangely eerie and yet satisfying to celebrate Christmas alone this year. There was nothing to pack to be hauled somewhere else. The house didn't need to be cleaned and policed from floor to ceiling. We didn't have to get up early. We didn't have to change from our sleepwear. We were able to keep our slippers on all day long. There was no need to lug extra chairs and tables from the attic. There was no need to do anything but to relax.

We had conceded Thanksgiving to them. It was their first Thanksgiving and they wanted to have everyone there. That didn't mean that my wife didn't still do her fair share of cooking. Then there was the annual Christmas Eve Parade get together at my daughter's in-laws house. The next day, her in-laws wanted everybody, including us, to come to their house for a Christmas dinner.

Well we reneged on the Christmas Eve Parade. Our daughter thought we were old farts for not wanting to see the parade. As the weather forecast, which turned out to be quite accurate, for that night was calling for freezing rain and strong winds, we refused to attend. It was miserable we were told. (A look out our own window hinted at the same prognosis.) They froze their asses off!

Yes, the kids must think us old fools. Aye, we are getting older, but we didn't stand outside in a blustery freezing rain to watch a parade. Now I ask you, who're the fools?

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the fact that we didn't spend the entire Christmas alone. The kids did drop by for supper and to exchange gifts. It was a wonderful Christmas after all was said and done. I wondered during that supper if they might have realized that they were acting out the beginning of their own future traditions.

I realize we are not really that old. My wife and I have a lot of years to start our own next chapter of traditions. The kids will be a part of the new traditions, as we will be a part of their traditions. All I can offer as advice is to remember the traditions and to hold them dear and they will become the foundation of traditions to come.

I could, but I won't, add a thought: Don't be surprised when one day your children, with their families in tow, show up at your front door and ask, "Is there a codger in the house?"

No.487

Resolutionary War

...Another year over ...
And a new one just begun.

I hereby resolve to make no resolutions.

For about fifteen consecutive years I have managed to keep every New Years resolution I have ever made. How many of you can say that? Anybody?

I must confess, however, that I have made the same resolution fifteen years running. "I hereby resolve to make no resolutions." What can I say? It was a lock. I couldn't help but succeed.

In the spirit of fair play, I think I will at least explore a few resolutions that I could make, if I were so inclined. A caveat might be attached, of course.

Don't rush me, I'm thinking. Perfection, even near perfection isn't easy to improve upon. Eureka! There's one now!

* I will try to remember to not end a sentence with a preposition. (Due to the free style of blog writing, this resolution would be doomed to failure.)

* I will not steal ideas or graphics from other blogs or sites. (I will "borrow" and "harvest" these things.)

* I will not shirk any of my responsibilites in favor of blogging. (Excuse me,please. I have to take out the trash, brush the snow off my truck, let the dogs out, scrounge up something to eat, take dirty laundry downstairs and bring up the clean, put the cans and bottles in the recycle bin, take a shower, take down the Christmas tree, etc.)

* (This one is easy to keep:) ... to wish every one a Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

No.486

Hand Jive

Stringman, I have to hand it to you. I couldn't resist the challenge. I like to think I am pretty handy when it comes to writing a blog about a picture or some other graphic.

I must admit that your post about not knowing how to or what to write about the picture was in fact a good post. You approached the subject with no clear path, on the other hand, you have put the pressure on me to do just the opposite. You have forced my hand.

I bear the responsibility of writing on this topic with a theme at hand. An easy way out would be for me flip you off! I won't, however, stoop to giving anyone the fingers. Besides, I'm sure I can handle this hand-me-down topic.

I put on some music to set a meditative atmosphere to help me think. I have some of the lyrics in my head. Hands across the water, hands across the sea ... Put your hand in the hand of the man from Galilee ... I wanna hold your hand ... I'm the Handyman ...

Now if I had hands like that, I wonder what kind of a job I might be able to hold down. I probably could work for a certain insurance company ... You know the one ... The Good Hands People. At a health spa, I would be a very popular masseur - hands down! No one would be able to mix music like me in a recording studio.

Hands like these could have a definite impact on one's social life no doubt. When your previous date said "Your hands were all over me," you'll know why she won't go out with you again. You didn't have her eating out of your hand after all! Then again, imagine copping a feel with those hands! Talk about having one's hands full! A hot date just might like your international hands with the 'roamin' hands and rushin' fingers. Hmm ... You could down five shooters and a full sized drink at the same time! (Talk about hand to mouth.)

If someone were to ask for a show of hands, no one would miss you. Have you ever had an itch on your back where you couldn't reach? Of course you have. Not with these babies! ... Talk about scratching the surface. Wow! It occurred to me that I could play a mean saxophone! All of those fingers could really dance on the keyboard of an organ! (I am making a conscious effort to avoid the tulips and organ jokes, folks.) Positioning a banjo and a guitar just right, I could play Dueling Banjos all by myself. If I decided to dabble in sleight of hand, I would get a big hand for my prestidigitation.

Not wanting to bite the hand that feeds me, I think I will throw my hands up and wash my hands of this second hand subject. I think instead, I'll kill some time with some finger painting.

I guess you were right, Stringman. At first hand it appeared to be an easy topic. I have decided that I will step aside and hand over the keys to the picture to someone else. Maybe there just isn't anything to write about regarding that picture. That hand is un-bloggable!

No.485