Need Vs Want

Imgur

Imgur

Have you ever noticed how we never really get what we want, only what we need? We’re always left wanting something better. It’s like our current presidential election.

Here we’ve been given a couple of candidates from our two largest party’s (as if any other party stood a chance of ever getting noticed) from which to choose a president…

AND STILL WE WANT SOMEONE BETTER!

You would think that in a country as big as ours, there would be a much better pool of candidates from which to choose, right?

Is it too much to ask for a candidate who looks similar to (you can fill in the blank, since beauty is in the eye of the beholder), but who also has the brains of an Albert Einstein or a Judit Polgar.

I fear we’ve become like those women in the television commercials from some years ago.

Remember? They’d receive this beautiful watch as a loving gift, and then proceed to express disappointment by saying, “Well yes it’s a great watch (NOT), but what I really wanted was a Longines.”

What? You mean the Christian Dior is not good enough for you?

Only, we’re not getting anything quite the caliber of a Christian Dior here—no, not for this election. Maybe a watch you’d find in a box of Rice Krispies, perhaps. But a Citizen Eco-Drive?

Uh… no.

You see, it’s just not good enough to NEED something anymore, when what we really WANT… is something better.

Take for example: wanting a new car. But not just any car… a brand new Maserati! (Whaddya say, honey?)

Or let’s say your wife has recently told you that your nuts and need a new brain. Hey, what a coincidence! Anyway, you contact Princeton and inquire about purchasing Einstein’s.

A new washer and dryer? Sure, but can it come with someone who’ll do my stinky laundry too—and for free! Admit it, who wouldn’t want a million dollars? But then again, a billion dollars sounds even better.

Yes, I’d like to look like a Greek god, but I guess I’ll just have to settle for looking like George Clooney, instead. (Hey, why all the laughter?)

And think back to that Christmas morning when we were all kids. There our gifts sat under the tree. We couldn’t wait to tear through all the wrapping paper for that one toy that we’d yearned for all year long. Only to unwrap it and find… we gotten clothes, instead.

You thought to yourself: Is this somebody’s idea of a bad joke?

And that’s just like this presidential election. Here we are stuck having to choose between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.

Dan of the Day

Are you kidding me? Please say it ain’t so?

See, what we really want (demand actually) is another choice for president. Surely there must be someone else from which to choose? Someone stable and not prone to speaking without thinking first. Someone who is honest and upright.

A politician? Ha, ha, ha! Yeah right. (dripping with sarcasm)

Come to think about it, though, maybe all those women wanting a Longines for Christmas wasn’t all that selfish a desire, after all.

Not when you put it in the context of what we’re all about to wind up with for a president come this January.

From The Echoes Of My Mind

SpanishDict

SpanishDict

Now while it’s true that some of you folks could care less about whether or not others like what you write about, I prefer to make room in my rather large melon for people who heap abundant praise on me for my writing. However, the inside of my cranium has been a hall of echoes of late.

Echoes of my inner voice screaming; “Maybe you should write more often you idiot?” Perhaps.

But probably not, since there are definitely those who’ve considered ending it all if I even go near a keyboard. On the other hand, there are still folks who feel that putting an end to me would be a much better alternative to that aforementioned ridiculous idea.

So you can well imagine what a wonderful surprise it was for me to wake up today and see an entire blog post dedicated to moi. This amazing blog post was done as a kind gesture for a response I made the other day on a friend of mine’s blog. Not just a few kind words mind you, but a WHOLE POST!

You know, this is the kind of recognition that could end the echoes in the hollows of my mind forever, or for an hour anyway. Still, that might be just long enough to quiet the voices in my head, thus allowing me the chance to think about what mindless twaddle I’ll write about next.

Mind you, this is only a blog post about a response I made, not about a complete post I wrote—although, some may feel my response could qualify as a full-fledged post, due to it’s rather stretched out length.

giphy

giphy

All the same, my friend Paul felt that my response was humorous enough to merit some kind of legitimate recognition, and by someone who I also happen to regard as an excellent writer—even if he does hail from a country that spawned the likes of a character named, Snidley Whiplash.

So, being as I am a member of DUMBASS (Duh Unusual Mutually—exclusive—Bozo Admiration Society of Sacramento) unlike my friend Paul (it’s just as well Paul, since its membership has no privileges), I felt I would expose all of you to some of his first class quality writing.

Seems only fair, seeing as you had to wade through all of my baloney first. You can check out his post about me over at https://captainsspeech.wordpress.com/2016/10/22/a-comment-from-another-paul/ but please, don’t let that put you off from reading any of his first class material as well.

An October Tale

vintagegal

vintagegal

“Don’t you realize that that old place is haunted?” they asked. Yes, I had heard the recent claims that every once in a while you might hear moans and groans closely followed by an occasional shriek of maniacal laughter coming from within its walls.

But being a skeptic I found that hard to believe.

Now had I been gullible—primarily a condition I find myself in on weekends due to alcohol consumption—I might have felt differently about it. But this being a weekday, I was absolutely certain I was cynically sober.

Going into the place might mean confronting a sense of anxiety and foreboding, which now spilled over my entire body. This—courtesy of my wife a compulsive house-cleaner with a penchant for sweeping up adjectives I frequently drop.

It all felt like sticky Ectoplasm, only worse than the stuff Slimer lathered all over Bill Murray in Ghostbusters.

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tumblr

The site—which had been abandoned for some time now—ominously oozed terror. I can’t say why (according to my attorney) unless I put it in writing.

Why?

Because nothing ever jumped out or grabbed me there, nor anyone else for that matter. At least, not to my knowledge—which is apparently limited to a second grade education.

Still, the possibility of something like that actually happening to me left me curious about how I might handle it.

I realize curiosity has killed many a cat, but not being a feline myself (unless you count the time a gypsy fortune teller put a spell on me), I had no worries. That was until, someone told me cats have nine lives, and with few exceptions… people don’t.

Darn it, if only my wife—who wears a white glove and happens to have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder)—hadn’t been so fanatical about throwing out all my little bits of paper, including the gypsy’s business card…

Then I might still be a cat!

I myself suffer from HCD (Husband Cluttering Disorder), which as any wife will tell you, is a REAL disorder. One every husband suffers from after becoming a male—usually by birth.

But, seeing as my wife had cleaned up all my clutter, I would now be unable to locate the gypsy. Thanks to my wife I was going to have to enter this terrifying place not as a cat, but… AS A HUMAN!

Stories had always surrounded the old place, but that never stopped amateur ghost hunters from trying to sneak past the bad grammar—like chopping and whacking overgrown shrubs—for a chance to get inside. Poor unfortunate souls.

I thought maybe they’d present no obstacle for me either, but I too was wrong. Instead, the stories now haunted me as well echoing throughout the cobwebs of my mind—like bats in a belfry.

Those who did venture inside—and survived to tell the tales—attempted to warn me (in spite of their better judgement) against going in again saying “Don’t go there girlfriend.”

Naturally—not being anybody’s girlfriend—I ignored them.

Once inside, I saw the writing on the wall. No really, I actually saw writing on the walls! It could have been continuous graffiti but I’m almost certain it wasn’t—because that sort of thing only happens in bathroom stalls.

No, this was more like an attempted sophisticated scribble gone bad, done by someone with neither the street smarts, or the familiarity with old Vincent Price horror movies. Where scripts were no doubt written intelligently.

Just then, I tripped over a mouse. A screen monitor sprung to light casting a giant shadow of fear over me. It wasn’t long before I realized… it was only my silhouette flickering on the stairs behind me.

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That’s when it struck me; picture-after- picture on the right side of the wall. This gave me a headache and I began to think to myself…

“Could the frames have been hung on weak hooks?”

Little did I know that these framed and angry people (trapped in this Night Gallery) were lashing out (the only way they could) at the fiend who had coaxed them into this frightening place of horror.

However, it was the photo above them that gave me the biggest chills. It was of some guy with the nose of a clown!

Have you seen the news lately?

Well then you know all about it. How clowns are running amok throughout the land trying to scare people half to death—as opposed to completely to death.

Not being a cat anymore though—thanks to my wife and her neurotic habit of throwing out gypsy business cards—this meant I only had but one life to give.

And so terrified as I was (and likely you as well) I decided to move back into…

MY OLD ABANDONED BLOG!

P.S. This last month was a rather busy one for us. Our oldest son just got married and one of our daughters told us we are going to be grandparents again. So I would like to apologize for my extended absence.

Which means; those of you who may have missed me before, may still get a crack at me by throwing some rotten fruit.

Hey, watch the darts buddy!