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There was this thong on the sixty percent off sale rack at Targets and I think I have been convinced to purchase it even
though I realize that a middle aged, potbellied man might not be the most desirable stuffing for a thong. I might be a pound
or sixty over weight but like they say if you have it flaunt it and I got a lot of it.
I also know that there are a
lot of prudes out there concerned with nudity, sudden blindness, keeping their breakfast down and counseling for the children.
To help alleviate their worries, I doubt if they will see me in a thong anyway. I have enough skin folds so that the thong
will probably stay out of site. I will need some needle nose pliers to dig the dang things out when I want to take them off.
Now
I know most people think that fuzzy little bears are cute but few would feel the same about my big fuzzy butt so this presents
a problem. I went to several professional hair removal places in town, you know the ones that do them bikini waxes. I finally
found a place with a near-sited lady that did not make a run to the bathroom after my request. I did not realize that hair
removal was so expensive. The lady explained to me that she would have to charge me by the yard because of the amount of wax
involved. When I asked about electrolysis hair removal she told me they would have to get the electric chair in Huntsville
and fry me like a piece of bacon to get that hair off.
Well I don’t want to seem cheap but spending the amount
of money they wanted for hair removal for a three-dollar thong seemed ridiculous. I did consider the much cheaper do it yourself
duct tape hair removal system but I was afraid that I might accidentally yank something off that I might need in the future.
So
I guess I’ll only wear it on formal occasions (it is black). Like Uncle Red said - "God gave us hair to cover
up the ugly parts. It’s his way of saying ‘Yikes’."
"The" Purse
There are domains of women and domains of man. In the house you could call the bedrooms, hallways, bathrooms, den, family
room, living room, dining room, foyer, kitchen, patio and laundry room and the people and contents therein the domain of the
woman or wife. The man is allowed to think that his domain encompasses the garage and a drawer for socks and underwear. A
carport could be considered a man’s domain if a power tool is on permanent display but only if there are no potted plants
in the area.
If the man of the house is on good terms with the lady of the house then he might be allowed the sanctuary of a recliner
close to the television and perhaps a TV remote control, this at her discretion.
Another feminine area of control is "the" purse. As a child I remember my mother talking to the paperboy at the front door.
At the time I was staring at the recliner thinking that one-day I would have one of my own. "Honey", my mom called me honey
when witnesses were present, "Get my change purse out of the purse in the kitchen."
I could not believe my ears! I was being allowed access to "the" purse for the first time. I felt a measure of maturity
as I ran to the kitchen counter. I lifted the gold colored clasp and carefully opened the lips of "the" purse. The aroma of
the open purse swept over me. The smell was of Juicyfruit gum and hard mint candies, treats often doled out as a reward for
obedience. Included was the faint smell of lipstick, leather and my mother’s perfume.
"The" purse had taken on a different dimension. It seemed large enough sitting on the counter but open it was cavernous.
The objects before me bewildered me. There were bottles of all sizes. I saw combs, brushes and a mirror. There were Kleenex,
paper pads, pens, pencils and keys. Here was the pink handkerchief used to clean my face before church. There were other shapes
in the darkness. Was that her checkbook? Was that the wallet she kept her photographs in? Where was the change purse? Stunned,
I did not know where to start or even if I should. I was invading the sanctity of something greater than the sum of myself.
"Give me that!" said my mother as she pulled the purse from my frozen hands. Reaching into it she shuffled a few things
around, made a couple of jabs and extracted her black beaded coin purse. ‘My goodness, I don’t have all day, the
paperboy is waiting" she said snapping the purse shut. Before she turned down the front hallway her face formed a frown. She
was probably contemplating the chore of training this poor idiot child to survive on it’s own.
I still freeze up when confronted with the daunting task of purse exploration. The contents of my wife’s purse are
equal to the inventory of a Dollar Store. Knowing that retrieving the cell phone from her purse would be akin to finding a
polar bear in a snowstorm I meekly hand her the purse and ask if she could get it for me. As she does she has a slight frown
on her face as if she is thinking about how in the world I would survive on my own.
Two Cats and a Can of Spray Paint
Please forgive me for I tend to ramble on when writing or typing. A friend of mine was the same way with conversations;
well perhaps they were more like narrations than conversations. He could take at least two hours telling about his trip to
the corner store to buy a carton of milk. He would relate each minute detail of his trip while throwing in a story about Aunt
Martha’s gout to boot. By the end of his tales I would no longer hear words coming from his mouth. I would be transfixed,
comatose, staring at his lips moving, as my own dazed brain could no longer order my legs to get me away from this entrapment.
I hope my writing does not have the same effect but just in case this newspaper, in its wisdom has set a word limit on
submitted articles to this column. I will have a hard time getting everything told in the relatively short amount of space
allowed but perhaps I can finish at a later date. Since this is more of a Public Service Announcement than of anything of
actual substance, some leeway may be granted to do this.
I was reading on an Internet Board about hurricanes when a posting caught my eye. It was from someone in Florida who suggested
that people should paint their telephone number on the side of their pets in case they become lost in a hurricane. Knowing
that small pets are sensitive to toxins and that paint has more chemicals than toothpaste, I would not recommend this action.
But by accounts Floridians seem to be experts on tropical storms, hanging chads and yelling "SHARK!" so I would not take their
recommendations lightly.
I realize that West Texas is not subject to the same amount of destructive hurricanes as Florida but we do occasionally
experience a tornado or two. "It’s better to be safe than sorry." I thought to myself as I started with our goldfish,
Tom and Jerry. The short time out of their watery environment while I penned our telephone number on their sides with a laundry
marker did not seem to bother them much.
It was kind of funny watching them swim around the tank with tiny numbers on their side like some kind of underwater advertisement
for Eat at Joe’s. In my imagination I could just see these poor goldfish being sucked up into a cyclone. For years the
people in the next county would be talking about the day it rained goldfish with telephone numbers on their side.
Well I see that I am getting close to using up my allotted space. Hopefully I can finish this story at another time. The
rest of this experiment in futility involves two cats and a can of spray paint and proves that the best laid plans of mice
and men do not include two cats and a can of spray paint.
Continued – A Cat’s Tale
I read a posting from someone in Florida about painting telephone numbers on your pet’s in case they get lost in
a tropical storm. Hurricanes are not a big threat here but we do have tornadoes on occasion. I thought, what the heck, I might
as well be prepared. After penning our number on our goldfish I searched the garage and found another main requirement, a
can of red spray paint. I already had two other ingredients to this lunacy in a 40-pound tomcat named Spencer and a petite
gray princess cat named Greta Garbo.
I, being close but not quite a complete idiot (nobody’s perfect), decided
that I would not be able to spray paint my entire phone number on the cats in one sitting. The nature of a cat requires that
it make any human endeavor as difficult as possible. Cats would not see any humor in becoming graffiti canvas. I made a plan
to spray paint one number at a time on the cat’s while they were napping, which as we know cat’s can do better
than Uncle George at Sunday’s Sermon. It would be no problem getting my whole phone number on Spencer while on GG I
would probably have to skip the area code.
GG presented the first opportunity. Peacefully snoozing on a throw pillow
on the sofa, I snuck up on her armed with my can of red spray paint. Everything was perfect, she was lying on her side making
a soft purring/snoring sound indicating she was asleep and not faking it as she often does. I carefully aimed the spray can
intending to start with the number nine.
The fist pssst of the spray can left me spray painting a big red splotch
on the now vacated throw pillow. The only indication that GG had been present was a gray streak headed for the back rooms.
"Well" I thought to myself "this was proving to be far more difficult than envisioned". GG would spend the rest of the day
and most of the night in the back closet. I knew she was in there because of the trail of red paint left on the hallway walls,
bedroom carpet and ending with the red smudges on the white sneakers in the closet. She did finally leave her hiding place
at about three in the morning to verbally express her displeasure at my attempt to make her more tornado proof. I have to
admit though that the red stripe down her side gave her a kind of punk kitty look.
I was contemplating the reflex speed
of our tomcat Spencer. I have seen him move pretty fast when the doorbell rings or when we try to take him to be groomed but
I figured I could get a good start on at least one telephone digit considering the larger expanse I had to spray paint. My
wife on the other hand convinced me otherwise and took my spray paint away
The Prez is unclad!
In my youth there were times that a thin strand of common sense was the lone restraint on my youthful bravado, keeping
me out of deep doo doo. Getting older does not make this thread of common sense any stronger nor does it make one any wiser.
There are plenty of us old dummies to prove this. The additional years do provide more opportunities to mess up thus an older
person often learns to cover his rear more efficiently. Age and deceit will beat out youth and enthusiasm every time.
I find in my older age that I can now peacefully sit in the park and enjoy the leaves changing colors on the big maple
tree. More youthful thoughts might be to cut it down, have a big bonfire, and throw a beer keg party.
I think our founding fathers realized this when they set an age limit for becoming President of the United States.
The designers of the Constitution were afraid that a younger President might be prone to throw wild parties and swim sans
bathing suit in the White House Pool while drinking margaritas.
Let’s imagine that the age restriction is changed
and we elect a 19 year old named Tike Myson as President of the United States with 60 year old Kon Ding as Vice President.
Note that these names may not reflect any famous person past or present. Famous people have money and money has lawyers who
like to sue the pants off people.
Nineteen year old Tike Myson is now President and he is having a bonfire and keg
party at the White House Rose Garden when he gets a phone call from VP Ding. "Hey Tike, how’s it hangin? I just heard
on CNN that the Ruler of Kanode, King Iam Imsane, says that the President of the United States is a wuss and dares him to
come over to Kanode and kiss his royal backside. Have to go now, got a cake in the oven, talk to you later."
Well after a few beers Tike realizes that he is the President of the United States. That Iam Imsane guy was calling him
a wuss! "Well we’ll see about that!" shouts Tike, "No round eyed, flat tongued toad licker is going to say that to me
and get away with it!" Please note that I mean no disrespect to those that actually enjoy licking toads. President Myson gets
on the phone and calls for Air Force One and flies to Kanode to open up a serious tub of cool whip on King Imsane. Alas, waiting
for him at the Kanode International Airport is a gaggle of armed Kanodians.
You can see the complications that President
Myson’s youthful and brash action has caused. Not only is sixty year old Kon Ding with his weird hair now the President
of the United States but President Ding is obligated to exact revenge on Kanode and King Imsane for making Swiss cheese out
of President Myson. What a mess!
The now President Ding is floating unfettered, so to speak, in the White House pool
drinking a margarita. He calls up the Secretary of Offence and over the noise of the poolside party authorizes an army of
nineteen-year-olds to go and kick King Imsane’s tail.
You know, that maple tree would make a nice bonfire.
Really Really Really Bad
The thick heavy mist lifted as the sun rose revealing what was once hidden but now was not. Ironically I realized now what
I had not known before. Slowly I turned cautiously facing her face. Our excited heated breaths mixed in the cool morning air
to form a single cloud that fogged her glasses. Behind those damp darkened lenses were azure eyes like limpid pools of liquid
water that seemed to be leaking because of the drops of tears streaming down her cheeks. I now knew that we were inseparable
because I could not leave and she would not go.
"Come here you" I said gruffly pulling her close to me. I have never been this close to a woman before literally as her
supple but ample breasts pulsated and pounded against me. Our lips almost touched as I tried to kiss her bumping our noses
together like two ships meeting in the night. Her voice trembled like her hand that she had placed on the shoulder that was
mine. "Troy, if only I had my cell phone I would not have to say this in front of you" She purred. "I’ve found another
and it’s not you".
My world collapsed around me like a badly constructed house of cards. My mind raced around in circles like those little
Indy cars on my gameboy. As I watched her sway as she walked away I realized more was lost than just a simple, short but unrewarding
romance. Gone was my dream of that little house in the valley. Gone were my hopes of her breathlessly welcoming me home to
that little house after a hard days work. Gone was my reason for getting a job. And as I watched her drive away, gone was
my car.
"Gertrude, Gertrude" I wailed as she disappeared into the glowing sunrise, "My name is Bill!" Sadly I felt remorse for
the things that I should have said but did not because I kept quite. I felt sorrow for the person that was in my black shoes
that now seemed to take on a tone of gray sadness in the early morning light. "This is bad," thought I, "Really really really
bad".
Ferd, the inventor from Bainebridge
Ferdinand Flagler the plumber and ex-dogcatcher always thought that he would invent something that would make him rich.
About three months ago Ferd tried out a microwave hot tub that he had built. What little hair he had left after the experiment
is still sticking straight out and he has had to wear an adult diaper ever since.
About nine years ago Ferd was elected county dogcatcher. Old Doc Paul, the town veterinarian, would come by and take care
of the sick animals and put them to sleep as necessary if you know what I mean. Ferd thought that he could do a better job
at this and came up with a device to dispatch the poor animal with laughing gas. He thought that at least they would go happy.
Some people think that Ferd used way too much laughing gas and some think that Ferd is just plain nuts but the first time
he tried out his contraption he flooded the whole dog pound with the gas. Most of the animals survived and Ferd had a splitting
headache for a couple of days but the greatest damage caused by the gas was the demise of Charley Four Eyes, the town’s
two headed Cat.
Charley had been kept at the county pound for public display and folks had become quit attached to him, as Charley was
the closest thing the town had to a tourist attraction. You can still see Charley in the lobby of the Bainebridge City Hall.
They had him stuffed and mounted but they could not get that silly grin off his face, I mean faces.
Ferd was soundly defeated at the next election for dogcatcher by the town’s undertaker but this did not keep Ferd
from his mission to invent something that would make him rich. All of Ferd’s inventions had a way of backfiring on him.
He had a good chunk of his left ear removed while coming up with a John Deere baseball cap that would also keep your hair
trimmed. The vision in his left eye was damaged while he was making a laser-guided cue stick. He blew off two fingers on his
left hand while attempting to convert his pickup to run on gunpowder and he lost his left big toe when trying to invent, of
all things, a better mousetrap.
Some people thought that Ferd was half witted and some people thought he was half done since he still had plenty of parts
left on his right side. Conversations around the town were peppered with predictions of which of Ferd’s body parts would
go missing next. After Ferd’s wife caught him fooling around with the undertaker’s girl friend most people agreed
on which body part that would be.
Though Ferd is still a source of macabre amusement his plumbing business has taken a hit. Most people don’t want
someone in their house that keeps blowing things up and besides, Ferd does not change his diaper as often as he should.
Above are the facts as closely as I can relate them.
Duane
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Roman Horse's Butts and Nasal Spray
It’s amazing how an invention, observance or discovery leads to another invention, observance or discovery. I remember
a series on TV where some guy with an English accent would bounce around the globe tying history together to show how the
invention of the printing press eventually resulted in the discovery of nasal spray. Though I am a great fan of the Discovery
and History Channels this dude usually lost me after the second bounce.
I do remember something about how the ancient Romans built roads wide enough for their chariots. The wheels of the Roman
Chariot were standardized to be as wide as two average horse’s rumps. The early English had to build their wagons so
that they would fit in the old ruts in the roads left by the Romans. The English were the first train carriage builders and
they used the old wagon building standard in spacing the wheels. Thus modern train tracks are spaced to fit the average width
of two Roman horse butts. I have found that this type of information when inserted into any serious conversation will bring
to a halt anyone’s mistaken impression that you might know what you are talking about.
I also remember something about when Ben was out flying his kite. A lightening bolt struck it and traveled down the string
and lit Benji baby up like a Roman candle. Not only did Ben experience what is called electricity but because of this he also
invented several new words for the English language and a couple of new dance steps, which are still popular today. After
seeing old Ben glow in the dark young Tom Edison tried to get the same affect by pumping this electricity into a non-human
object. His string kept burning up so he replaced the string with wire and came up with the electric light.
Orange Smally and Tom Davenport wrapped this insulated wire several times around a pipe when installing a light on top
of their blacksmith shop. The resulting magnetism made the nearby weathervane spin like a nickel slot machine at a Nevada
retirement home, thus inventing the electric motor. Charles and Alexander Meston were hot and sweaty after unloading a shipment
of electric motors to a St. Louis store. They stuck some blades on the end of one and invented the electric fan. Henry Ford
tried to build an automobile using an electric motor but could not find an extension cord long enough so he helped develop
the gasoline engine.
Now when Orville and Wilbur wanted to get out of the bicycle shop and fly a kite they were afraid of getting electrocuted
like Ben Franklin. They came up with an idea that they would attach one of those gasoline engines with a fan blade to a kite.
The fan would constantly blow wind at the kite making the contraption fly on it’s own. This worked but their powered
kite would fly off into the horizon because they did not have a string attached to it. They came up with an idea to build
a seat on the kite and Wilbur volunteered Orville to sit in it so he could guide this contraption.
George Eastman saw this strange flying machine and said to himself "Boy! I wish I had a picture of this!" and invented
the Kodak Camera.
Thomas Edison found that by holding a photo negative near one of his lights it would project an image onto the wall. By
taping together several of these negatives on a real and attaching it to one of these electric motors he could make a motion
picture.
People driving around in their Ford automobiles needed some place to go so they came up with drive in movies. Orville flying
around in his powered kite needed a place to land so he landed in this big drive in movie place making it the first airport.
Now all of this may not have happened as I remember seeing it on the television program. Fiction is stranger than truth
and a lot easier to make up.
The Ford Maverick was Hot
There are those that think the current generation of college kids are more beserker than have ever been and point to the
raucous giddiness associated with college spring break as proof of this assertion. Yet I think that today’s spring breakers
are comparatively reserved and more interested in fashion, fun and suntans instead of the outright hooliganism of my generation.
In my younger days Splash Day at the Galveston Beaches, as Spring Break was called, was eagerly anticipated by the local
youth. One year as I remember Ford had was introducing the Maverick and had a pavilion on the beach. They buried a toy model
car in the sand and whoever could find it would win a prize. My high school friends and I watched this roosted on the granite
rocks near the seawall happily and thankfully sipping a beer that was easily obtained during this casual period of celebration.
The first person to dig up the small plastic car was immediately offered an elbow to his then existing front teeth.
The new hopeful winner, after a short but valiant struggle, succumbed to a tackle, a pounce and many pummels from associated
members of the frenzied mob. Each possessor of the treasured plastic car was greeted not by congratulatory slaps on the back
but by actions deemed criminal in all states except perhaps Utah and in violation of the Geneva Convention and Maritime Laws
and are considered mildly inappropriate by the World Wide Wrestling Association.
The shocked Ford corporate members
tried to call off this mid day attempt at entertainment but only further exasperated the situation. Even to the point that
the shiny new Ford Maverick they had exhibited on the beach was turned over by the now over stimulated crowd like a turtle
on its back. But before someone came up with a can of gasoline to offer this amazing automotive marvel as a flaming offering
to the gods a few in the crowd still had enough soberness to remove the brand new tires. This for compensation for the now
withdrawn prize for finding the toy plastic car buried in the sand.
This and watching the drunks driving off the seawall
provided early spring entertainment to an otherwise boring Gulf Coast juvenile existence.
Christmas Lights
Yet again it is time to deck the halls with boughs of holly and adorn the windows, roof and yard with anything that blinks,
shimmers or glows with the electrified joy of Christmas. Time again to haul down the many dusty boxes of collected Christmas
paraphernalia from the attic. Time to untangle the Christmas lights that somehow have magically transformed themselves into
a wad of green wires and glass bulbs since being put away. Time again to wonder if it is too late to pack one’s bag
and spend the holiday’s elsewhere. Surely there is an Eskimo family living in an Igloo on the arctic tundra, a thousand
miles from any extension cord that has an extra walrus hide for a visitor to sleep on.
Somewhere between the first appearance of boxes of Christmas tree decorations on the store shelves and the sandwich made
from the last mortal remains of the Thanksgiving turkey; modern male must contemplate the annual ritual of trimming the house
with Christmas lights. What drives men to such madness is debatable. Once it might have been the gleeful childhood memory
of looking at Christmas lights with the family or the anticipation of your own children enjoying what you have done. Now the
chore is driven by the peer pressure that you had thought dissipated after adolescence and high school. A desire to fit in
and not stick out as the only Scrooge in the neighborhood, a need to again best the neighbor by one illuminated reindeer.
So you risk life and limb fully knowing that the strand you are now hanging on the eave of the house will have to be taken
down and redone because you have it’s electric plug facing the wrong direction.
As we all know the manufacturers of Christmas lights have sold their souls to the devil and are in cahoots with other commercial
entities to suck the very joy out of the holidays. Only a room full of demons working overtime could invent a string of lights
that when one bulb fails, they all go out. To further torture the Christmas spirit they make you change out each bulb until
the faulty one is discovered. You are forced to do this in the middle of the night in windy, freezing weather while grasping
a wobbling ladder rung, the eave of the house, a spare light bulb and a flashlight. Not satisfied with this they have arranged
that by some devilish logic that no matter which bulb you start replacing that you will have to replace all of them before
there is any hope that the string of lights might start working again.
After avoiding a visit to the hospital emergency room you can once again stand back and admire the Christmas decorations
on your home all lit up at once. While you are doing this another string of lights flickers and then goes out making your
smiling illuminated home look like it has a few teeth missing. Loosing control of the words coming out of your mouth you send
the family pets cowering and earn a naughty by your name on Santa’s list for the next twenty years. By the way, the
Eskimo family called and wondered if I could pick up an inflatable Santa and a couple of plastic elves for them at the local
Wal-Mart.
Pack Rat
Being a pack rat, perhaps more of a rat than a member of a pack, I have stacks of stuff all over the place. I hate to throw
out magazines because I might not have read all of it or had enjoyed an article or photo in one and hated to throw it away.
I am sure in one of my drawers I still have the keys of my old 1961 flathead Plymouth Valiant, loved those buttons.
Not
only to I have a multitude of bad photos that I have taken over the years but have several copies of them. My wife and I have
books everywhere, hardback, softback, and humpback and for a person of limited memory this is not good. We (and as I say we,
I actually mean I) can stand baffled in front of the on sale rack at Hastings debating until we (and as I say we, I actually
mean she) decides to add it to our collection or if it is already in our collection.
We have some friends who keep
their house neat and uncluttered. Their greatest fear is dying and then having to make their children go through any clutter
that they might have left just to find if the old folks had left anything valuable like a hundred dollar bill in some old
magazine or purse. I on the other hand, enjoy the thought of my kids having to dig though mounds of junk just to find a few
pennies stuck in a corner of some drawer. Since this is not their junk I am sure that they can make a more objective decision
on what to throw away or keep. Problem solved.
I and apparently my wife also, enjoy having the things that we have
collected over our lifetime near by. I know that the stacks of old magazines, old records, books and cheap souvenirs from
our travels have little value compared to a painting by Matisse. But it's what we can afford and it gives us a warm and secure
feeling like an old blanket, and yes we have one of those too. As someone once said, probably a pack rat, one man's trash
is another man's treasure.
I wonder also that being able to afford to have someone pick up after you, cut your grass
and so on makes one more classier than one who can not afford to. I think that the class comes from learning to clean up after
yourself and the respect (not pride) you have in yourself and others and has nothing to do with what neighborhood you live
or were raised in. As the song goes "Cover your mouth when you cough, this will help the solution".
Short story - Shakespeare meets Bubba
Conversations between Bubba and William Shakespeare in the local bar.
"Whoa man, watch you wearun? Tha names Bubba. Tham jammies? Them leetards? Whatch up to? Goen sum maskeeraid partee? Yo
shore dressed funny."
"Greetings Bubba, I am known as William. Alas Bubba, if it was only for frivolity that I seek. I hoped perhaps the glowing
lights of this pub would dispel the shadow of confusion that surrounds my sad circumstance. Yea this could free me to seek
and enjoy the distractions of that you speak."
"Oh man, you pootin on me! You talk funny too Willy. Yo from up nouth? Whair you frum?"
"Far away I fear. I do not know what separates me from the protection of yon Cliff’s of Dover, be it time or distance.
The sweet smell of the heather of my home seems a faint memory. A dream perhaps, more mist than being. Perhaps this is the
true reality that shocks my now open eyes."
"Hell, Dover you say? Aint that whar them New Englun Patriates fooball team from, somewhar thar in Masseechewsets or Main?
I warn’t worree bout that Heathur much. My old lady always akikkin my butt outtha house. Good scuse forn a three day
drunk if yourn askin me. Anneeways aftern a few days the police ull take you back home an make the little wife let you back
in. They don wan to have to put you up and feed ya in tha jail. I don think they gonna drive you to no Mastahawsits though."
"I know not when furrows, ages plowed, have been covered by the clover of virgin pasture to make new the land of my birth.
But these are confusing times. Perhaps I have fallen into the entrapment of the devil himself to face eternal torment confused
and lost, seeking to return to that, which never was nor will be. If the good tavern keeper were to call upon the constable
to bind and shackle me and take me without recourse, it could be no worse."
"Oh man. If evern I seen sumwon who needs a bruw. You seem lowern than a buckit of crap at tha end of a long rope in well
dug to hell. I told ya not to worree bout Heatha. She’s gotcha babblin lika fool. Tha furst times tha wurst but lika
said, them womens hawd to git rid uv. You mite asswell spend time geeting drunk. Maybe yall stop babblin. Whacha drinkin?"
"If calling upon Bachus to provide his sweetest nectar would perchance allay the hounds of discourse that are upon me would
I shout with the fullness of my breasts. If warm waves of brandy would take this ship of discontent elsewhere I would partake
till its stupor drives me upon the shores of familiarity. But alas, though I find myself not completely destitute for my pouch
is full, the good tavern keeper has no use for coinage of the realm."
"Well hell I’ll be, let’s not be a talkin bout our brests. Folk’s roun these parts aren’t got the
opin mine I got. They gonna think your sum weerdeedoo dressed in them leetards and talkin bout yore brests."
"Yore Yankee Macheechewsits money aren’t no good here. Ya'll need good ole Amuricun money like us. My bruther n law
runs this place so I got an opin bar tab. I thinks he’d druthers me be hear adrinkin thin home with hissern sis amakun
more babees. He don’t know thut I ruther be here arneeways. Let me buy you a bare. You sho culd use one."
"If fates were reversed and I partaken of the opportunity to spread the balm of kindness as you, the path that has taken
me thus might be changed. And in return fashion, your offer will I accept in hope that this action will belay any discord
ordained upon you. I thus pay homage to your wisdom in the appointment of ale for I can see by your girth that this knowledge
has been applied greatly."
"Hay Will, y’all come down from Missychawsuts to git in a leetle huntin? My bruther een law gots sum hunnin leases
not lent out on hissen place. We kin goat on out an geet us a deer. I got sum gud fludlites own my pickumup sows we don hafta
wait fer daun. You kin burrow won of my deer raffles. If'’n stars rainin we kin goan gig sum frogs down by tha swump.
They be gud giggin in tha rain."
"Though I may find the smoky fragrance of venison roasting on the hearth fills one with anticipation of the feast, and
yea have heard that the sweet meat of the flank of the frog does do rival to Kingly sustenance, I fear I must decline. For
I find that my time in this place of learned giants has taxed me sorely. I must flee less I become crushed by the weight of
thought borne by my attempt to converse. So thus I shall bid my farewell and sally forth into the mysteries of the night to
face the torments of my destiny."
As he entered the parking lot he fumbled for his car keys located in his little leather pouch. "Gosh derned rednecks by
gum!" He muttered. "But all tha bahs round eer be full of em aye."
"Who was that Bubba?" asked the bartender. "One of those re-enactors from this years Shakespeare Festival I suppose?" "It
seems so Fred." answers Bubba. "He had the costume down pretty good but I think he needs to work some on his Shakespearean
grammar and inflection." "Seems you were using questionable grammar yourself Bubba," says the bartender. "Well, you have to
keep the tourists happy you know." Responds Bubba.
"Another beer?" questions the bartender. "No thanks Fred." Responds Bubba. "I am making dinner for my wife’s birthday
and need to stop by Piggly Wiggly for spinach for the Oysters Rockefeller and some walnuts for the Waldorf. " "You take care
Bubba. " Replies the bartender. "See you at the Poetry Club meeting tomorrow."
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X-ray glasses and Cruising
Years ago I saved up my coke bottle deposit money and bought a pair of X-ray vision glasses that I had found advertised
in the back of a comic book that promised you could see through clothes. My adolescent disappointment was high when I discovered
that they did not actually work. They had a flimsy plastic frame and cardboard lenses. In the middle of the lenses was a viewing
hole that was covered with pantyhose material. I now know that this was pantyhose material because I get the same visual affects
when I pull my wife’s pantyhose over my head when I get out of the shower and walk around singing the Hiawatha Love
Song. This action also makes our tomcat Spencer hiss like an air matress with a hole in it.
I still have these gag glasses and take them on the cruise with me. I go up to the pool deck and find the gal (you
know who you are) that sits by the pool in that Italian designer swim wear made out of dental floss. Nothing gives her the
heebie jeebies more than a pot bellied middle aged man standing there looking at her with a pair of cardboard glasses with
"X-ray Vision" written in bold letters across the front of them. After a while she will get up muttering something about your
ancestors and leave you a vacant lounge chair. Make sure when you try this that her muscle beach boyfriend Burt is not around
or he will pound your SPF 2000 buttered butt into a pulp. I promise this hurts like heck.
Now that you have an empty chair lather yourself up in that Quaker States Suntan Lotion you bought at the Army Surplus.
I know it’s hard not to keep sliding off the lounger but I found by locking your arms around the edge of the lounge
chair and intertwining your feet with the last few vinyl straps you can manage to hold on while pointing your white butt crack
towards the sky like some droopy swim trunk offering to the sun gods.
I do like the idea of passing gas that was offered by a previous poster but I am afraid that unless you can conjure up
one that will wake the people in the cabin below you that it will go unnoticed, wafting in the fumes from the ship’s
smokestacks. I would save this for the crowded swimming pool so at least you can see the bubbles. This will not work in the
hot tub because you will not know if the bubbles are coming from you, the hot tub or the smiling guy sitting across from you.
I know that you are thinking that this is a great idea and you will try it on your next cruise but what about the chair
hogs that leave their "reserved" lounge chair unattended for hours. There are several solutions that I can come up with that
are logical, civilized and fair, but let’s not go there.
Two words come to mind and I say them with tongue in cheek as opposed to the more painful tongue in teeth, "Public
Execution". Remember the good ole days when after a morning fire and brimstone sermon we would all meet at the Town Square
for a picnic and a hangin. Well I really don’t remember this but that would have been the way I would have remembered
it if I did remember. I know that someone dancing at the end of a rope is just entertainment for the just and righteous but
it may give pause to his fellow evil doers. They might reconsider and think that robbing banks, ignoring stop signs and cheating
on their income tax is not such a good idea after all.
Wouldn’t it be a hoot if the Ship’s Captain came out in a Blackbeard outfit waving a cutlass above his
head dispensing ARRRGGHHs left and right while he sends some poor chair hogger to their demise at the end of a yard arm, or
meter arm in Europe, or off a plank on the pool deck?
I know what your thinking, "My God! Are you suggesting that the cruise
line execute a paying customer for hogging chairs? What about the lost bingo and casino profits? What if the cruise line feels
that they have to compensate the surviving spouse with a free drink or onboard credit?" No no, au contraire. I am not suggesting
something so drastic but there are a lot of crew members and one of them might be having a bad week, performing sub par so
to speak.
All it would take is the Captain to shout, "This is what we do to chair hogging swill" before he tosses this poor chap
into the foaming sea. This would not only take care of the chair hog problem for the rest of the cruise but it would also
make the food in the dining room taste a heck of a lot better. I would only recommend that this be done only once during the
cruise because I am a non-violent person, especially violence from a muscle beach dude named Burt.
Click here for requests or comments - FisherArts.net
San Angelo Texas
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