I'm not a golfer and I'm not one to post jokes but I do appreciate a good one now and then.
I laughed out loud at this one. Thanks, Gerry.
Joe is teeing off from the back tees. On his downswing he realizes that his wife Mary is teeing up on the red tees directly in his way.
Unable to stop his swing he nails it and hits her directly in the temple killing her instantly. A few days later Joe gets a call from the coroner regarding her autopsy.
Coroner: "Joe, your wife seemed to have died from blunt force trauma to the head. You said you hit a golf ball and hit her in the temple, is that correct?"
Joe: "Yes sir, that's correct"
Coroner: "Joe, I also found a golf ball wedged up her ass."
Joe: "Was it a Titleist 3 ?"
Coroner: "Yes, it was."
Joe: "Oh, that must have been my mulligan."
Someone commented on one of my last posts that "Cough Medicine and Cocaine" sounds like it could conceivably be the name of a band. Hmm…i had an idea.
Click here. I gotta warn you though, some of these names are downright nasty.
Not for the PC.
and yes, Smorgasborgnine is the name of a band. (though the spelling might be a bit off)
I kinda like the "Screaming Moist Accountants" myself…
I was driving to work the other morning and came to a stop on a sideroad in the city.
I glanced in my rearview mirror and shuddered. I watched in horror as a woman powdered her face, put on lipstick, curled her eyebrows and drank a few sips of coffee all while talking on her cell phone and smoking a cigarette.
I’m thinking, son of a bitch if this broad hits me I’m going postal.
Ladies, ladies, ladies, what in the name of God possesses you to do this sort of thing in traffic, no less?
What would you think if the situation were reversed and you saw me in your rear view mirror trimming my nosehair while constructing a ship in a bottle?
Yeah, kinda makes you nervous, doesn’t it?
They both require about the same amount of painstaking attention and focus.
Amazingly, this woman didn’t hit me and continued on her way to work, I assumed.
I had visions of her stopped at the next traffic light, left foot solidly on the dashboard, toenail polish in hand. My God.
Maybe it’s time to look into that Sherman Tank.
At least then I’d feel safer.
A journal entry on the train home.
I’m watching the towns pass by me as the train travels towards home. My life is like a wheel; with people, places and things entering and exiting without so much as a moment’s notice. It’s such a fleeting thing, my life; hard to grasp, but even harder to hang onto. The sun is setting outside the train window, hazy and somehow tired, like me. Cars blaze by in the train’s same direction on the Mass Pike traveling at speeds that are well over the legal limit; maybe soon the drivers will be home. Does it really matter? The train is very bumpy tonight; all my letters are converging on one another like one big sloppy bowl of alphabet soup. West Newton now, not even close. In my mind, my eyes are closed and I hear nothing save for the synthesized violins.
I’m listening to "Arc" (1993) by Jimmy Haslip, bass player for the Yellowjackets. The song is called “Hannah’s House”, an ethereal instrumental simple in its chord structure but complex in its overall texture, much like my youngest daughter, Hannah. The music floats me from stop to stop as I listen and write. It’s such a sad song, so unlike my Hannah, but beautiful in the same sort of way, if that’s possible. I love Haslip and have for many years. A friend of mine once did a studio session with him and told me what I already knew; he’s a real nice guy. The way he plays confirms that. Other outstanding tracks on the CD are Outland and Old Town.
The skyline off to my left is now royal purple with a thin layer of orange creamsicle spreading out towards the bottom. My head is tired but my heart is still listening. Sometimes the music I listen to affects me in surprising ways. The end of another weekend has come and I’ll go to bed after posting this—only words, feelings and the movement of my pen across the page tonight. The train pulls in for its final stop; a well-deserved night’s sleep is finally within reach.
I laughed harder than I thought I would and had to pass this link on.
I remember album covers like "American Pie" featuring Don McClean's upturned thumb painted with the likeness of the American Flag. My wife remembers the Beatles, "Abbey Road" with the mop tops walking across a deserted road somewhere in the UK, with John Lennon
walking barefoot. ("I buried Paul")
If you don't remember "albums", it's way past your bedtime anyway.
Click here for a good laugh. ()
The other day I read an essay by Susan Mitchell called, "Dreaming in Public: A Provincetown Memoir". The composition was mainly a narrative, focusing on her innermost thoughts and feelings during a summer stay near the east end of Provincetown. The work contained so many metaphorical gemstones that my head was literally spinning. It was the kind of writing that made me look at my own legal pads and utter,ughh, man I suck. S-U-C-K. But hey, at least I'm consistent.
Whenever I read a brilliantly written piece of literature, a part of me turns sadly spiteful. Why wasn't I born with that kind of talent? Then again, maybe Mitchell was a struggling and mundane writer long ago too.
I think of writers like Jonathan Franzen, Junot Diaz and David Sedaris and virtually wilt reading about the worlds they create on the page; their ephemeral words careening around my squishy grey matter like soft butterflies. How do you achieve that level of passion and still hold on to your sanity?
As you may have guessed, I don't feel much like writing today.
It's 6:15 in the morning and I'm still sleepy. That the words aren't flying in like mosquitoes on a warm summer night doesn't help much either. My soul has nothing to say (or maybe it does but I don't want to write it down). Yes, today my muse is MIA, a daily occurrence, a bleak writing observation. In the sublevels of my imagination he lives, this muse, a cigar chomping hobgoblin that (in my mind) looks strangely like Danny DeVito. If he does decide to pay me a visit, he's so quiet that I don't even know he's been there. It's only after reading something I've written several days later that I recognize the tell-tale signs, the carelessly dropped cigar ashes. It's but a creative smudge on most days and hardly noticeable but it gives me that eternal hope regarding my creative endeavors. I'm always on the lookout. Maybe that's why I try and show up here everyday. ZZZzzzzzzz…
I was listening to WEEI Sports Radio out of Boston on the way to the train this morning when I heard that Russell Crowe, the total Aussie gasbag, was in the news again. What a friggin' surprise. He was arrested last night at a posh Manhattan hotel after allegedly throwing a phone at a defenseless concierge. After spending most of the night at a trendy NYC watering hole, Crowe returned to the Hotel (4:10am EST)and attempted to call the Land Down Under. Unsuccessful, he turned belligerent, his disjointed justification for the throwing of the phone. ("Ooh, So, sorry, mate…but I got no telee…")
After a call to 911 by concerned Hotel employees, the Crowster was arrested, booked, fingerprinted and sent to spend the rest of the night where he slept on the floor of a NYC holding cell, accommodations justly befitting an extremely talented dingdong such as Crowe. It was reported that Crowe was concerned about how the altercation would affect his VISA and ability to work in the United States. Should Crowe be allowed to remain in the US and wreak havoc on the general public anytime he sees fit? Hmm…that's a tough one. I say, yes, as long as the concierge with the bloody, lacerated face gets to insert said phone directly up Mr. Crowe's unlubricated Aussie keester. (AND THE WHOLE NASTY PROCEDURE GETS AIRED ON MTV's REAL WORLD!) Go ahead, Russter, you can make that call now, the lines are soooo open. Maybe the Russter does have a Beautiful Mind, but in my book he'll always be a total nitwit. But you wanna know the best part? It was all caught on surveillance video…Oh, I can't wait to see it. It may just be Crowe's best acting job yet.
This is the stuff that slowly oozes through my mind at 6am…and no, I'm not proud of it.
Yesterday, I thought that I’d be a stand up guy and help my wife out by throwing in a few loads of laundry. We have three daughters and dirty clothes accumulate. Hey, every little bit helps, right? Judging from the mountains of clothing I found you might think I’m living with roughly 400 people. (That’s just the hamper in the bathroom.) Along with the clothes, our bathroom closet has more hair products than John Kerry, possibly, with mousse, hair gels, sprays, volumizers, de-tanglers and conditioners. It’s hair for God’s sakes not some weird science experiment. The products have these cutesy names like Freeze, GOT2BE and Punk’d. I ask my wife, what the hell is all this stuff for? She never really answers me she just kind of laughs as she asks me for her Origin’s Facial Exfoliant. At 6AM I don’t want to exfoliate anyone or anything, thanks anyway. I'm off on a tangent yet again.
The laundry situation is out of control, haywire, nutso and beyond my imagination and I think I know why. Guys will put on anything that looks like it may have been washed, meaning, if it’s folded, it’s wearable. We don’t stop to smell the clothes to check for freshness or whether they have that new “Springtime” Bounce dryer sheet aroma. We will wear the same thing all day long, no matter how dirty it gets. We may, however, change if we have to attend a wake or visit a loved one in a sterile environment such as the ICU at a local hospital. We, as men, create less laundry and therefore don’t view soiled laundry as the serious health hazard that our female counterparts do.
I’ve witnessed firsthand all three of my daughters as they go through two weeks worth of clothing in a vain effort to find something to wear to church on Sunday mornings. They put on a shirt—nope, not right. Off it goes, its destination, the slagheap that is the bedroom closet floor. A perfectly good, clean shirt gets transformed into a dust bunny collecting ball of wrinkled cotton. Onto shirt #2. Nope, won’t work either, the color is all wrong. Shirt #3. Same thing, for different reasons this time. We’re not even to the "picking out jeans" stage yet and the closet door is now bulging open and can't be closed unless I rent a winch from Taylor Rental. If this isn’t bad enough, when they’re done going through everything in their drawers they come after my stuff. Gaad, this is getting scary. The part I love the most is when I hear them say to their mother, “Mom, we don’t have anything to wear!” No kidding. You girls just tried it all on. Ah, women and laundry, it's no wonder they go so well together. Someday I will get my favorite shirt back. Mark my words…