I needed a laugh today and got one from Klaatu42 at Youtube.
He does some of the funniest animal videos and I would love to see just how he does them someday.
Speaking of the post title, I overheard this at lunch today:
“Instead of wrapping bin Laden in linen, we should have wrapped him in bacon and tossed his sorry ass overboard.”
Bacon-wrapped bin Laden?
I think I’ll pass, thanks.
Enjoy the laugh, peeps.
There’s a subdued purple crimson suggestion of a new day off to the east and I can’t help but wonder
what today will bring.
It’s yet another pedestrian Monday morning;
another chance to make the pieces somehow fit, a seemingly impossible task.
But there’s always that “what if” that keeps us all steadily on track.
I took a nice long stroll yesterday with my wife through a cemetery right near our house.
I cherish these walks because they set me straight,
keep me sane and burn calories (something my physician loves).
It’s quiet and peaceful and my wife and I consider the many folks there our personal friends.
Over the years, they’ve been privy to our most intimate conversations;
our quandaries and concerns, our aspirations and clandestine dreams.
As we walk and try to somehow figure it all out; this life,
this frantic situation we always find ourselves in.
Most days, we leave the cemetery with more questions than we came in with
making me wonder if that’s the way it’s really supposed to be.
The cemetery is surrounded by water and my wife sees a lone swan off in the distance,
floating silently on the water.
There’s no breeze and the murky water appears to me as black glass; static and dim,
the reflections of indigo sky above screaming of a visual paradox.
So much like our lives, I think.
“I wonder where the other one is.” She says.
“The other one?” I ask.
“Yeah, they always travel in pairs. Like us. That’s the way it is with swans.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, “I only see one.”
“Me, too,” She says.
My wife scans the area surrounding the pond and seems sad the swan is alone;
an almost bittersweet sentimentality.
Our conversation veers off on another relatively impossible tangent as we continue our walk
around the winding cemetery road,
both of us unconsciously searching for the second swan.
I began thinking about the old black pot belly stove that sat in the cellar of the house I grew up in.
No idea where the thought came from but it triggered a total waterfall of memories for me.
The stove was fat in the way a corpulent Santa Claus would be.
It had an ornate shiny silver ‘belt’ of trim around the belly and a flat top where you could actually put a skillet and fry some eggs or place a kettle to boil water.
I vaguely remember my father heating some hot dogs and Boston Baked Beans on it one winter night when the power went out, though my sister would have to validate that.
Many magical things happened in that cellar over the years.
There were the band rehearsals where I learned to play songs like ‘Ohio’, ‘For What It’s Worth’ and ‘Rocky Racoon’.
I learned that Wild Irish Rose was total rotgut at $2.98 a bottle and that weed was something to be smoked and not ripped from the garden to be added to the compost pile.
Guild, Fender and Martin guitars were awesome and playing the introduction to ‘Black Magic Woman’ on a Fender Rhodes while high was a near religious experience.
(My Mom knew, but said very little)
It was in that special place that I slowly broke away from childhood innocence and began to see all the crazy possibility in the world.
It was in the ground level bay window that my father would set up one of those chintzy silver tinsel Christmas trees.
You know, the ones that were lit up by a squeaky and archaic tri-color rotating light that turned the tree from red to green to yellow to yack?
My father would plug it in and run outside and stand in the side yard and stare at it as he shook his head in total Yuletide affirmation.
After my sister’s wedding (reception), 100 or so people descended on the house; upstairs, downstairs, in the cellar, 9 Old Worcester Road was transformed into a surreal but quintessential Animal House complete with music, booze, food and crazy people walking through screen doors.
I’d never seen my Dad totally blasted until that night.
Christ in a sidecar, he was funny.
Even funnier the next morning. (don’t talk to me, just don’t talk to me . . . )
The cellar was also the location of a very special place created by Sarah and Jenna (my two oldest daughters) called, ‘Mr. Boston’s’.
My father had remodeled an old bureau into a bar on wheels, an idea he got from God knows where.
Take a bureau and turn it around so the drawers are facing away from you, cover the back and sides with paneling and put a nice wood trim around the top corners and you have a bar.
I can still see the tacky yellow linoleum he put on the bureau top.
The ‘drawer’ side faced the bartender where there were drawers filled with drink mixes, napkins, toothpicks, martini glasses, broken corkscrews and booze (except in the off season).
There was a maniacal clock with backwards numbers and hands that hung on the wall behind the bar. (the second hand went backwards)
On the face it boldly asked “Are you ready for another one?”
It’s ironic that when you were drunk it actually made some sense.
The girls would go straight to Mr. Boston’s whenever we went to visit my mother and father. Sarah would usually start out as the bartender because she was older and Jenna would be her soul customer (*ms, intentional).
We could hear them laughing and yelling as we all laughed and smiled upstairs.
Eventually, they would get a bit bored with the limited clientele and come back upstairs to recruit some fresh meat.
We would all go downstairs and ‘get served’ as the girls became both bartender and waitress.
They would take orders on their paper pads and serve us wonderful food and drink.
That was until we got our bill.
($768.00 for 2 burgers and drinks!?!?!?! Your prices are too high Mr. Boston)
I guess what I realized today was that my cellar was a place where small dreams came true for many people, including my two oldest daughters.
And I know that everyone reading this post has their own ‘Mr. Boston’s’ as well.
Write about it tonight . . . and remember.
It’s only a few pen strokes away . . .
If you can start the day without caffeine;
If you can get going without pep pills;
If you can always be cheerful, ignoring aches and pains;
If you can resist complaining and boring people with your troubles;
If you can eat the same food every day and be grateful for it;
If you can understand when your loved ones are too busy to give you any time;
If you can forgive a friend’s lack of consideration;
If you can overlook it when those you love take it out on you when,
through no fault of your own, something goes wrong;
If you can take criticism and blame without resentment;
If you can ignore a friend’s limited education and never correct him;
If you can resist treating a rich friend better than a poor friend;
If you can face the world without lies and deceit;
If you can conquer tension without medical help;
If you can relax without liquor;
If you can sleep without the aid of drugs;
If you can honestly say that deep in your heart you have no prejudice
against creed or color, religion or politics; then, my friend, you are
almost as good as your dog.
I like the fact that the name ‘Hannah’ is a palindrome.
And I love the fact that my wife and I chose to call our youngest daughter Hannah.
I’m not sure why the palindrome catches my attention but it just does.
I stumbled upon a madass comedian named Demetri Martin.
He loves palindromes.
(check out his nasty little 224 word work below, it can be read the same way in either direction)
I think he’s probably nuts but I love this kind of stuff anyway.
God, I love her name.
Dammit I’m mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level “Mad Dog”.
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I’m a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I’m it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
“Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog”
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I’m mad.
I’m thinking this could be an entire class forMrsV . . .
I have no idea what the fine folks at Ben & Jerry’s are smoking these days but they have some of the tackiest advertisements for ice cream that my eyes have ever had the misfortune to read.
The ads are so cutesy they make me want to stir fry a litter of Chihuahua’s.
I hear they taste just like chicken.
Ice cream in January around here is almost as enticing as a hot cup of soup on the 4th of July.
It just doesn’t make meteorological (or logical) sense.
Like these Ben & Jerry’s ads.
I saw an ad at B&J’s a month or so ago for one of their frozen concoctions called ‘Whirled Peace’.
Gag me with a maggot.
The proverbial turd floating in the crapper was something I happened to notice last Tuesday.
Are you ready?
Get your tie-dye barf bags out.
The flavor du-jour (I didn’t even bother to see exactly what it schwas) was something called, ‘Yes, Pecan’, in honor of the big O’s inauguration.
You have got to be shitting me.
Lame, lame, lame.
Well, smack my ass an call me Betty, who was the slogan-making machine that penned that one?
They should be brought out to pasture and neutered.
Over the years, slogans have always managed to catch my attention, especially when they’re real bad.
I found a few funny things floating in cyberspace regarding slogans gone over to the dark side:
Clairol introduced the “Mist Stick”, a curling iron, into Germany only to find out that “mist” is slang for manure.
Colgate introduced a toothpaste in France called Cue, the name of a notorious porno magazine.
Coors put its slogan, “Turn it loose,” into Spanish, where it was read as “Suffer from diarrhea.”
Scandinavian vacuum manufacturer Electrolux used the following in an American campaign: “Nothing sucks like an Electrolux.”
When Gerber started selling baby food in Africa, they used the same packaging as in the U.S., with the beautiful Caucasian baby on the label. Later they learned that in Africa, companies routinely put pictures on the label of what’s inside, since most people can’t read.
The Coca-Cola name in China was first read as “Ke-kou-ke-la”, meaning “Bite the wax tadpole” or “Female horse stuffed with wax”, depending on the dialect. Coke then researched 40,000 characters to find a phonetic equivalent: “ko-kou-ko-le”, translating into “Happiness in the mouth.”
In Taiwan, the translation of the Pepsi slogan, “Come Alive With the Pepsi Generation,” came out as “Pepsi Will Bring Your Ancestors Back From The Grave” in Chinese.
Also in Chinese, the Kentucky Fried Chicken slogan, “Finger-Lickin’ Good” came out as “Eat Your Fingers Off.”
Frank Perdue’s chicken slogan, “It takes a strong man to make a tender chicken” was translated into Spanish as “It takes an aroused man to make a chicken affectionate.”
When General Motors introduced the Chevy Nova in South America, it was apparently unaware that “No Va” means “It Won’t Go.” After the company figured out why it was not selling any cars, it renamed the car in its Spanish markets to the Caribe.
Ford had a similar problem in Brazil when the Pinto flopped. The company found out that Pinto was Brazilian slang for “Tiny Male Genitals.” Ford pried all the nameplates off and substituted “Corcel”, which means horse.
When Parker Pen marketed a ballpoint pen in Mexico, its adds were supposed to say, “It Won’t Leak In Your Pocket And Embarrass You.” However, the company mistakenly thought the Spanish word “embarazar” meant embarrass. Instead the ads said that “It Won’t Leak In Your Pocket And Make You Pregnant”
The psychology of slogans fascinates me.
And come to think of it, after reading these, maybe Ben & Jerry’s isn’t so bad after all. Bite the wax tadpole? Evylmust have had something to do with that one . . .
My heart went out to this little guy when I watched this video.
It’s more of a public service announcement than anything but if posting this saves
one cat like Charley, it was worth the ten minutes of my time.
Cerebellar hypoplasia is a disorder that affects both cats and dogs.
In a nutshell, the cerebellum is not completely mature at birth.
Watch the 2 minute video and pass a link onto anyone you know that loves their cats.
Rock on, Charley.
Yeah, the furry bastards are plotting to kill me.
I see it daily.
No idea when my untimely demise will be but yeah, they’re plotting something.
I can see it in their eyes.
Could be soon . . . just don’t know
The irony is that I love my three cats.
But one has gone over to the dark side . . .
Why not just eat an entire freekin’ cow for cripe’s sake?
Click on the MI culinary delight above for a cafe that is possibly responsible for
more saturated fat-related deaths than Mickey D’s
But hell, the waitstaff looks damn curvy and nice.
Okay, I’ll give them a bye
I guess if you’re going to have a heart attack this is the place you’d want some serious mouth-to-mouth action.
Somebody order me another triple-bypass, will ya?
Double the fries, too