All The Good Subjects To Write About Were Gone

Nothing gets people talking, like what this blog talked about all week long. Nothing. As you probably noticed, no one said nothing about it either, and that’s nothing new. The problem was; I had nothing left to write about, all the good subjects were taken by other blogger’s.

I fear I’ll have nothing to write about for weeks.

Writer’s block can leave you with plenty of nothing to write about. There is nothing more terrifying for a writer to write about, than nothing. Particularly, when everyone else is writing about something. In fact, the only writing I did this last week, was when I wrote comments on other people’s blogs.

Writing comments on subjects other people have already written about is a lot easier, let me tell ya.

Brain-block is a terrible thing, especially when you take up writing a blog. Occasionally, followers come looking for something to read. Its not like when you wrote in some personal journal or a diary. Particularly one that didn’t belong to you.

In those cases no one cares except you, the snoopy mom, the dopey sister, or the ruthless dumb blackmailer who kidnapped your boss in hopes of extorting money from you, or he’d dump your boss in the river—which you let happen, because you didn’t get that Christmas bonus you were counting on.

But a blog…

A blog can open windows, telling you all about people and their personal lives—which is often better than eavesdropping on them. Or about their pets—and possibly more than you ever wanted to know about their personal lives…especially their sex lives.

Blogger’s also write poetry, good and bad… and much worse than bad—”See Rex, see Rex run, see Rex run for fun. Run Rex, run, run, run.” Some blogs, are by unpublished authors talking about books they’re going to write—and never finish…or get published.

Then, they’re the blogs about traveling to places—you can’t afford to go see. Comics—by people with more talent than you; hobbies and crafts—again, by people with more talent than you; Photography—by photographers more gifted than you; and movies and television—by people with more money than you!

Then there’s me—the blogger with no post. Because, they’re no subjects left worth writing about.

Oh sure, the blogging community left me a few boring subjects I considered toying with. But, they’re the rejects. Subjects, that no other blogger would dare touch with a 12 inch keyboard. Riveting material that could lead to post titles like:

“Aunt Hester’s gall-stone surgery and her sister, Bertha’s, bunions.” How’s that for a Stephen King wanna-be’s poorly written horror novel post? “My work”—good for two or three words, maybe a complete sentence!

Or, I could write about, “Sleeping Habits of the Sandman deprived Narcoleptic.” Oh here’s a good one,  “Small Talk and the Weather…conversation starters that won’t get you noticed.” And finally, “How Facebook allowed—Big Jim Martin, my next door neighbor—into last nights nightmare.”

No…I think the good subjects are all gone folks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why New Year’s Resolutions Should Be A Thing Of The Past

Hello everyone, I’m back and busily working on my blog again. I’ve also started catching up on what you’ve all wrote while I was enjoying family and friends during the last two weeks.

So I began thinking about what usually happens to us all when we start a new year. That of resolutions and making for a fresh start.

Human-beings tend to feel that beginning a new year is a perfectly suitable time to start solving the problems that have nagged us since our last New Year’s resolutions. Animals… not so much.

'You chewed up my list of new years resolutions! Good boy! www.cartoonstock.com

‘www.cartoonstock.com

Here are some typical resolutions?

Promising to drink less during the coming year. However, when you think about it, that is one resolution doomed to failure right from the start. Consider this; who wants to get dehydrated? I believe that makes my wife’s resolution for me to stop drinking beer this year, kind of a silly request.

Water? What’s that?

Then there’s the resolution we make to spend more time with our families. Really though, with the whole family having just finished spending an entire Christmas break together, we have to ask ourselves, can we really improve on a good thing? I think not. Besides, there’s all those bowl games I have to watch.

Also, the family needs time to play all their new video games, plus show off the stylish fashions they received for Christmas.

Another resolution we have trouble keeping has been that of getting out of debt and saving money. That is one resolution that never makes sense. Can anyone truly get out of debt, especially when we start receiving credit card bills for Christmas shopping, in January.

Use cash you say? What’s that?

And then there’s that old standby of going on a diet and getting fit. How on earth can anyone possibly succeed at doing that, what with all those commercial breaks during football games suggesting we snack on chips and soda?

I seriously doubt any of us can truly resist such subliminal messaging for a Pepsi and some Doritos.

No, I think we better give up the whole idea of a New Year’s resolution. Instead, why don’t we consider making resolutions at any other time of the year… except New Year’s! Maybe then we won’t meet with so much failure.

Then we can say; a New Year’s resolution? What’s that?

 

 

 

 

 

Merry Christmas To All, And To All—GET BUSY WRAPPING!

THE YEAR WITHOUT A SANTA CLAUS - "The Year Without a Santa Claus" airs on MONDAY, DECEMBER 4 (8:00-9:00 p.m., ET/PT) on ABC Family. (RANKIN/BASS PRODUCTIONS/ABC FAMILY) SANTA CLAUS, REINDEER

THE YEAR WITHOUT A SANTA CLAUS -www.tvguide.com

Twas the night before Christmas, the last minute shopper had been out and about. Came home with his packages begging help from his spouse. Looking for tape and scissors and knowing not where, he had hoped to avoid the gift-wrapping nightmare.

Yes, Christmas Eve is finally here folks. But, we better watch out, and we better not cry, we better not pout I’m telling you why, Santa Claus has finally skipped town. And where you ask, is Jolly Old St. Nick?

Retired.

That’s right, you heard it here first. Kris Kringle has—like Elvis—left the building. He’s given up his North Pole distribution center for an extended stay in the Florida Keys. Sub-contracted the whole workshop out to the PUC—Parents Under Contract. You and I are the new CEO’s of Xmas-Inc. In charge of getting gifts under the tree in time for Christmas morning.

You, me, the Post Office, FedEx, UPS, DHL…etc.

yijenliu.com

yijenliu.com

And who gets the elves you ask? That would be the unemployment office. Bad break for the little guys.

And Santa? Well by downsizing and putting his annually lucrative gift-giving enterprise into receivership; with a deferred compensation arrangement including a 401K, rather generous pension plan, substantial benefit package, and executive stock compensations; plus the pending sale of his North Pole properties, he probably stands to make out like a bandit.

In addition to that, his Swiss Bank account is magically drawing 6%!

You wanna guess who’s left holding that bag? Bingo! Correct, you and I… the public. However, we do get the satisfaction of knowing that our children will have a Merry Christmas. Not to mention that we the adults, will have lighter hearts and wallets.

But, I saw this coming years ago.

Every Christmas Eve Santa would show up later and later. Then my parents would say, Well he’s not gonna show until you go to bed.” Who were they kidding? What did they have to hide? Who were they trying to protect?

That should have been my first clue that Santa was eyeing an early retirement.

Sometimes they’d say: “Kids, Santa Claus has way too many deliveries tonight, around the world trips take time.”—especially if you’re using a sleigh.

Or, “There’s too many holiday travelers in the air and that’s causing flight delay’s. So Santa’s probably in a holding pattern with other air-traffic.”

But my all-time favorite excuse for his being late came the year of the big snow storm; “He’s probably going to need the help of a red-nosed reindeer this year.” That’s a good one.

Over the years—ever so gradually—the job of Christmas delivery began falling to us. At first, I’d just put on a red suit and fake beard. But then I started adding inches to my waist-line with those darn cookies. Then one year, I stuck in the darn chimney.

Where my oldest son found me on Christmas morning. stock-photo-three-of-santa-s-reindeer-on-a-snowy-rooftop-looking-to-see-if-he-s-down-in-a-chimney-2256936

Of course, there was the expected blubbering when he realized I wasn’t really Santa Claus. However, the tears soon dried up when I told him it didn’t mean any interruption in the flow of high-priced goods for his Christmas holiday.

I carefully explained to him there might even be some hush money in it for him.

Naturally, my son was excited by this prospect and immediately initiated a notarized contract—I was astounded to find him a notary public, too! He encouraged me to sign on the threat of exposure to the other kids. I did as directed and was surprised to find the contract stipulated—among other things—that lots and lots of toys were still part of the deal.

So—fellow board members—Santa Claus has made it official; he’s no longer the front man for Christmas—something we’ve all known for quite some time now, anyway

Nevertheless, that leaves us with a very perplexing question to answer. If Santa Claus hasn’t been doing all that frequent flyer on Christmas Eve…

Then who’s the fraud Norad’s been tracking all these years?

AND WITH THAT PUZZLING CONUNDRUM, A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL, A GOOD NIGHT!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uh Oh—A Greeting Card From The North Pole?

 

Ordinarily, I’d love this festive time of year. Twinkling lights hanging from all the trees on a cold, breezy, winter night.

Never mind that you can’t see their reflection on the wet streets below because of all the bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic, butI expect that sort of thing at Christmas time.

epa03970663 Christmas lights on Regent Street in London, Britain, 29 November 2013. EPA/ANDY RAIN ** Usable by LA, CT and MoD ONLY **

epa03970663 Christmas lights on Regent Street in London, Britain, 29 November 2013. EPA/ANDY RAIN ** Usable by LA, CT and MoD ONLY **

Along with all the holiday shoppers in the malls. Pushing, shoving, jockeying for position creating those long lines I always seem to get stuck in.

But, like I said, it’s Christmas time and I expect it—ATCHOO! Uh…I tink I’ve caught anutter nasty code in my dose. (Honk!)

Yet, I’ve come to expect that sort of thing too, during the season of…of…of—ATCHOO!—giving.

Honk, Pfft, and Sniffle. Speaking of which, I’d sure love to find out who gave me this miserable code—SO I COULD GIVE IT BACK TO THEM!

All I do know is, is I better get a stocking full of NyQuil this year—you know, the nighttime cold and flu medicine—along with lots of chicken soup too.

Wanna know what didn’t I expect, though? A Christmas card from the North Pole.

My wife and I arrived home from a pleasant evening out at a little Christmas soiree. She went to check the mailbox and came back with a pile of mail that even Santa Claus would find overwhelming.

“Hey…there’s a Christmas card in here for you dear” my wife said, “and it’s from the North Pole! Who do you know at the North Pole?” she asked.

Poor woman. Guess she never heard of Mr. Narwhal.

All the same, I dropped my Airborne tablet—completely missing my glass of water in the process—and exclaimed, “Silly girl, don’t you know I have connections everywhere?”

Oh I make no secret of the fact I’d hoped Santa Claus would write me again. But in my wildest dreams I never truly believed he would. I mean, not after the infamous blowtorch incident. But we won’t go there… I was only nine at the time, anyway.

Besides, I think there should be an expiration date on that kind of thing, don’t you?

Back to the card. Naturally I was excited. I’d felt my massive letter write-in campaign to Santa over the past year, called—PROTEST 2014—helped the ‘Big Guy’ to see the error of his ways.

This, for not giving me my Christmas wish last year. Or any other year for that matter.

Oh, the wish?

For one million dollars in unmarked bills—to be dropped down a chimney of my own choosing on Christmas Eve.

I could have asked for two million dollars, but I felt why push it and have him think me greedy. So I told him I’d settle for ONE. After all, I’m not the extortionist Mrs. Claus and all those horribly pathetic, itsy bitsy, teenie weenie, tiny, little minded elves have made me out to be. I’m just an ordinary guy whose name is etched in stone on the naughty list, trying to get what’s coming to me.

Who do those elves think they are anyway? His legal counsel!

So, what did fatso send me last year? A buck, that’s what! Oh no, not a full grown deer, but a WHOLE ONE DOLLAR BILL! I found it at the bottom of my Christmas stocking along with a note stating “Son, you made the list again. Love; Santa.” And he wants me to love him for that?

And at the bottom of the page—IN VERY FINE PRINT—it said…

THE NAUGHTY LIST!

Well that was the last straw. I just knew this year was gonna be different. So I lunged for the card my wife was holding— practically knocking her onto our corner table. Fortunately,  her incredible sense of balance helped her find the floor, instead.

Now, with envelope in hand, I eagerly read…

“Greetings from the North POLL!”

(A side note here. One of my friends, Sarah Ferguson (no, not the Duchess of York), she caught this misspelling. Check out her funny response in the comment section below. Though, I’m sure it was because someone spiked my eggnog—which by the way, I don’t drink.)

It card continued…

“You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. But do you recall… the most famous reindeer of all?”

I looked up and thought, “Where’s the old fart going with this?”

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, he has a very shiny nose, tells me there’s a guy impersonating him, also has A RED SHINY NOSE. Now all of the other reindeer, tend to laugh and shout out a name. And it isn’t Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer, care to play the guessing game?—Hint, hint…his picture is on your blog, and he has a Red Nose, too! Fancy that—MAYBE IT EVEN GROWS!”

Then he asked, “Do you know who he might be—donkey brain? WELL… DO YOU PUNK?”

I looked at my wife… still seated on the carpet.

Slowly, she came to her feet, “Honey, what is it?” she asked “You look as white as snow!” I turned towards her with my eyes, as wide as saucers. My words barely escaped my lips…

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s just possible Santa Claus is, CLINT EASTWOOD!”

I dropped the card in shock, and continued.

“And you know what else?” I think Santa and Rudolph are out to get me!”

Laughing (skeptically), my wife nervously replied “Oh… that’s nonsense, honey.”

I picked up the card and asked “Really? Well feast your eyes on this! She stared at the card for a moment. Then I asked, “Whad’ya say now?”

“They take a nice picture?” she responded.

But what really concerns me is; I can’t shake this nasty feeling that I might not get my million dollars—AGAIN! I just pray none of you ever make THE NAUGHTY LIST like I have.

You might never make parole! (ATCHOO!)

“Honey! Can I have another cup of NyQuil! On second thought—JUST BRING THE WHOLE BOTTLE!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Christmas Carol—No, Not The Dickens One

Schmoesknow.com

Schmoesknow.com

There had never been a more miserly man than John Q. Consumer—better known as, GOUGED. He adopted his nickname for he felt Christmas was no more than another excuse for retailers to pick a man’s pocket.

“Season of giving? Bah, humbug!” he was often heard to say.

His abrasive personality and manner of being were forged out of his disdain for the holiday—and for not spending money in general.

Every year—starting around June—he found himself being bombarded with Christmas deals offering holiday sales on everything—from cars to… EVEN MORE CARS!

Oh sure, advertisers still offered the cheaply made goods as well—those that would fall apart after only three or four uses, but GOUGED, had discovered something more devious.

Retailers marking goods up in price in advance of the holidays only to reduce prices back down to their original OVERPRICED amount just in time for Christmas holiday shopping.

Naturally, GOUGED, became as bitter as the cold that accompanied the festive holiday season.

Finding items failed to work after he got them home, he was further frustrated by having to go back and stand in long lines to get his money back. Many times, only to be told of the retailers no return policy.

He felt preyed upon by the mercantile for his hard earned… MINIMUM WAGE.

During the holiday season the “Ladies and gentleman of charity” could be found standing by their little red kettles in front of the many retailers places of business.

They would ask him to contribute to those in need of common necessities. Hoping, that he might be willing to give to the less fortunate, and thus offering provisions for the poor and destitute—of which he felt he was one.

Being part of what was formerly known as, The Middle Class, his answer was always the same. “Bah, humbug.”

Though, no one ever had the slightest clue what that meant, they figured as long as the old fool cracked loose with some cold hard cash—preferably tens and twenties—let the old geezer babble and speak all the gibberish he wants.

For the record; Bah, humbug actually translated into, “Hey, when are you dummies going to start contributing to my needs?”

So this Christmas Eve, GOUGED, decided things were going to be different.

He launched into a tirade, asking his detractors why there weren’t more unionized workhouses in operation that paid a living wage to their workers?

Why bankers never considered lowering interest rates? Why unemployment offices never honestly tried to provide for those in debtors prison—better known as credit card holders?

“Right.” they would reply, “Well, you see sir, there are many unscrupulous employers, banking institutions, and corporations operating and each is corrupt as all get out.

They’re always wanting to pay less while raking in more. Bankers are always raising interest rates constantly trying to remain highly profitable. All this comes at the expense of the suckers… uh… we mean the labourer’s and shopper’s.”

TheDailyBeast.com

TheDailyBeast.com

“And why do they do this?” GOUGED asked. “I’ll tell you why. They want to ‘decrease the surplus population’ that’s why! Then you’ll only have the wealthy to fill your little red kettles at this time of the year.”

They were all too aware of how the tightfisted wealthy seldom did that.

His rant had caught them off guard. GOUGED sounded inexplicably like he was from the United Kingdom, but they knew him to be American?

Realizing his slip of the tongue, as he had recently become an Anglophile—no doubt because he had seen far too many remakes of A Christmas Carol—he decided to pause for effect.

Then—now in broken American English—he continued his rant.

“Employers don’t like having to pay health benefits for what is left of their overworked, underpaid employees. So, in order to increase their hefty profit margin—and still reluctantly pay the health care cost—they slash the wages of the laborer’s who helped make them that tidy profit.”

Oh, it should be noted, that many a labourer hadn’t seen a cost of living increase, in about fifteen years.

GOUGED, further knew that those who lost their jobs would likely find themselves navigating a never ending call tree over the phone with the unemployment office.

Those few who did manage to get through, would likely be dismissed as unwilling to work. And this was because they were going to be paid far less than what an illegal alien (immigrant, or is that an emigrant) could possibly scrape by on.

The “Ladies and gentleman of charity” warned, GOUGED, that the merchants might be angry if they ever heard his views on the state of the economy.

May even hire some peasant to go plaster his car windshield (LITERALLY), with thousands of flyers in an attempt to promote one of their sales.

“Bah, humbug!” he shouted at them, and off he went into the bitterly cold winter night seeking out his car in a poorly lit parking lot, only to uncover its windshield—WITH A CHISEL AND A SCRAPER!

GOUGED, finally arrived home close to midnight. Sitting down to a cup of Campbell’s Beef and Barley soup, someone came crashing through his front door. It was one, Jacob Marley, his former used car salesman, who had only recently lost his job at the local Carfax dealership.

Hubpages.com

Hubpages.com

Hardly a ghost, but a shell of a human-being all the same, GOUGED, didn’t feel this excused Marley’s driving through his front door—WHILE INTOXICATED!

It made for a very uncomfortable encounter.

“Take heed, GOUGED, Marley began, “for I have it on good authority—I think it was a guy down in front of Macy’s ringing some sleigh bells—that you have forged in life a chain of debt, far less than that of my own!”

GOUGED, cowered over his checkbook—surrogate to his empty bank account.

“Beware GOUGED” Marley intoned, “beware, for you will soon be visited by The 3 Spirits of Madison Avenue over the course of the next 72 to 96 hours. “Beware!” he warbled.

Then he faded from view—handcuffed in the back seat of a squad car as he was taken off to jail for a DUI.

GOUGED, thinking Marley a man given to drink and suffering from the DT’s, decided to ignore the whole incident.

But, not before he called his State Farm Insurance agent about the damage to his front door.

His agent, wearing Khaki’s at the time and sitting at his desk at 1:00 AM in the morning, was waiting for the call—not that any of that is important to the story.

Nevertheless, a few hours later the first spirit of Madison Avenue appeared.

“GOUGED!” it bellowed from the glimmering light of the television screen.

“Who is it?” asked GOUGED, grabbing his 12 gauge shotgun.

“I am the ghost of Black Fridays past.” replied the voice from the TV. The spirit now floated through another disrupted cable signal (which GOUGED paid through the nose for on a monthly basis) and into his living room.

Fearsome indeed was she. Battered of face with clothing torn asunder, the ghost was the full embodiment of a Black Friday shopper. A real live Walking Dead zombie! She implored GOUGED—screaming at the top of her lungs…

“Remember… anything for the deal, anything for the deal!”

The thirty second million dollar spot—paid for by advertisers—was over. The spirit vanished, but not before GOUGED had emptied his 12 gauge shotgun into his flat-screen television in a blind panic.

“Now I’m going to need a new Samsung 110 inch TV for Christmas.” he frustratingly thought to himself—a sad price to pay for being a gun-toting ARA member.

Now, left with only being able to watch YouTube on his desktop, he gradually nodded off to sleep again.

24 hours passed, when suddenly a voice echoed from the monitor in front of him. “GOUGED” the voice asked searchingly, “are you there?” He sought refuge under his pegged together IKEA desk.

“I am the ghost of Small Business Saturday.” it continued. GOUGED,  recognized the voice.

“Bob, Bob Cratchet? Is that you?” GOUGED asked.

Bob was the owner of The Rug Emporium just down the street. Always going out of business for one reason or another, Bob would somehow always reopen a month or so later—usually with a relative taking over as the new owner.

However, old Mr. Fizziwig recently bought him out, or so Bob claimed.

“You have never seen the likes of me, have you GOUGED? For you’ve never shopped locally on Small Business Saturday, have you? In fact, you never shop at all, do you, GOUGED?” asked, Bob.

GOUGED replied “True. In fact, I can’t see you now either, but I recently WINDOW SHOPPED your former stor! Which I believe is now under new management by old man Fizziwig, is it not?”

“Window shopping doesn’t count, GOUGED. Ignorance and want, that’s what counts these days. But, I tell you what, my son Tiny Tim (who stood 25 stone), has bought the store back from old man Fizziwig, and he’ll make you a right fine deal on some new Persian rugs. Whad’ya say?”

GOUGED, thought for a moment and replied…

“Okay… I promise to buy some rugs—NOT! Look, I’m going to need a new computer monitor more than those stupid rugs. See, my monitor is shot!” (and another bang rang out)

And with that, GOUGED, was out of ammo.

Another 24 hours went by. Soon, GOUGED (who practically overdosed on sleeping pills), heard a buzz on his cell phone. He picked it up and clicked on the smart phone only to be met with a reminder that the third spirit would soon arrive.

The ghost of Cyber Monday.

“Am I in the presence of the ghost of Cyber Monday yet to come?” asked, GOUGED?

His smart phone beeped in the affirmative. “Oh spirit” GOUGED continued, “I fear you most of all. For I am technologically challenged and do not have a PayPal account. Should I Google how to get one?”

The phone beeped and an image appeared. It was the photo of an H&R Block followed by the words…

“Spend…or else!”

GOUGED thought for a moment, and then asked, “Or else…what?” Another beep, and a picture of Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium appeared with the words “Closing, everything must go. Going out of business!”

Columbiaclosings.com

Columbiaclosings.com

Gouged asked…

“Spirit, are these the shadowy signs of what might be, or what has actually happened? Because, Cratchet is always claiming he’s going out of business.”

The phone beeped once again and the screen on his phone read…

“GOUGED, I fear if you do not start spending money—LOT’S AND LOT’S OF MONEY, then Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium will be no more. I even surmise a visit from the IRS might be in order.”

“No not an audit!” cried GOUGED.

“Please spirit, I promise I’ll exhaust my savings (all two cents worth), I’ll even spend money I don’t have, max out my credit cards, get a lone from the bank—well at least exhaust my savings, spend money I don’t have, and max out all my credit cards.”

“Can’t do much about the bank loan thing though…banks don’t loan money anymore. But, I swear on my former used car salesman’s liver that I’ll do the rest!”

The phone beeps stopped. GOUGED, figured he’d better sell out to the spirit of Cyber Monday—but FAST!

“Hey… I don’t mind being gouged for the money, honest I don’t!” he screamed, “I promise, I’ll do all the other stuff just like I said. Just please… don’t send the IRS to my door to conduct an audit. I can’t afford a law firm!”

GOUGED, dropped to his hands and knees—and reached under his bed for an an old shoe box full of receipts—just in case. Then he rushed outside and practically drove over a jaywalker carrying a small turkey to get to the closest ATM and withdraw his savings.

GOUGED, proved to be better than his word. He gave all his cash until the little red kettles swelled with money. He bought Persian rugs, just like he promised he would, and from Tiny Tim’s Carpet Emporium.

Of course… he eventually was arrested and put in prison for embezzling funds, writing bad checks, and committing grand larceny.

But, he kept Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium from going out of business. Plus, he kept Tim out of debt, all while keeping the Rug Emporium flush with cash.

After all, isn’t that what the true spirit of Christmas is all about? The spirit of giving—until it hurts?

(Soon to be a Major Motion Picture from some big name studio starring—my… quarter brother—Tom Hanks)

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving—The True Story

Who would have ever thought that when the President of the United States decided to pardon a Big Bird from becoming a dinner on a platter, that we’d get the greatest holiday of all? And isn’t it amazing that that Big Bird would grow up and go on to become the star of Sesame Street on (PBS), the Public Broadcasting Service.

twitter.com

twitter.com

Thanksgiving indeed, especially for Big Bird!

It takes me back to when I was a boy. Let’s face it, coming from a family of twelve, and being told that the President of the United States was going to let a Big Bird go free at Thanksgiving time, would probably give any family that size cause for concern.

So thank god I didn’t come from a family of twelve!

Anyway, where else but in school can someone learn the true story behind the holidays? Certainly not on the E network, like “The E True Hollywood Story of Thanksgiving.” I think you’ll agree, learning about the holidays in school—and here—is likely to be a lot more fun.

I remember the first time I learned about Thanksgiving. There we were, me and my kindergarten classmates, being given a big sheet of paper to draw on. Our teacher was going to show us all, how our hands were really turkeys in disguise?

All we had to do was trace around our fingers—those were the feathers—and then around our thumb which would later become the head.

Huffintonpost.com

Huffintonpost.com

And viola…instant turkey!

I’ll never forget when we were given the paints for painting the turkey. Oh boy, no crayons! Not only did we paint the turkey, we proceeded to paint all our desk and tables too. Then we got down to sprinkling glitter on practically everything, but mostly the carpets.

That’s because glitter always makes every classroom look so magical. Ah…and I can still smell the glue.

Anyway, after that little malay we were told to eat our graham crackers and drink our warm milk—which had been sitting on the radiator for hours. Then our teacher instructed us to lay down for our nap.

I suspect she felt this would prevent her from pulling her hair out. After all, she did have a class of 20 five year old’s. So we had to whisper, and that’s when we all learned about the true story of Thanksgiving.

My friend, Billy, told us Thanksgiving really took off as a holiday when a family, known as the Pilgrim’s, moved over here from England by way of a Mayflower Moving Van—he said that they even got to buy a new Plymouth to drive. And they paid for it with beads! I wonder if that still works today?

Smith Miller, Toy Truck, Mayflower Moving Van

Smith Miller, Toy Truck, Mayflower Moving Van

He then went on to tell us how his grandfather used to have a Plymouth, and therefore must have been a member of the Pilgrim family too. His grandfather had mentioned once, something about how his Plymouth was a brand from the Dodge, Chrysler, Plymouth dealers from way back when.

Now, we were all a little skeptical that Billy’s grandfather could have ever been an original member of the Pilgrim family, since Billy’s last name wasn’t even Pilgrim. His true last name was Jones. Plus, we’d all seen Billy’s grandfather many times before, and not once had he ever worn all black clothes, even his hat and shoes were devoid of buckles.

But, when my friend, Sally, told us how she’d heard somewhere that the Pilgrim family was actually greeted by a tribe of Indian Givers when they arrived here in America, and that these Indian Givers were known to give turkeys out to every person who would buy a car from them, we figured Billy had to be telling us the truth.

Hey, everyone knows that only car dealers do stuff like that!

So, if any of what I have just told you about the origins of, Thanksgiving in America, is not true…may WordPress not let me write another word on this particular post!

 

 

 

 

 

The Weary Writer Returns To His Blog

Ladyclever.com

Ladyclever.com

So here we are in the midst of November—better known as National Novel Writing Month—or as some writers like to affectionately call it, http://nanowrimo.org/. Not me of course, I have yet to master the art of speaking URL fluently.

Grammarly.com

Grammarly.com

Yet, there may still be other writers out there who no longer speak of the challenge with love and affection. These might be writers who now sense that feverishly trying to produce a 50,000 word novel by 11:59 on Tuesday November 30th, may be a challenge unworthy of real affection.

However, maybe some of them are excelling in producing language that would make a sailor blush. Nah!

But, some of these fine folks may be stressing out over having to finish their unfinished novel on time at the expense of sleep, a Thanksgiving family dinner, and an existing income called… a job. And it’s all in the name of imagination, creativity, and maybe in some cases… wishful financial independence.

And yet, I wish I could claim to be counted among these wretched writers and their perceived folly to produce that 50,000 word novel in one months time. Why you ask?

Well, you may have noticed—those of you who frequent this weird, wild, and wacky blog of mine, better known as the poor unfortunate souls called my followers who have ACCIDENTALLY been sucked into this swirling vortex of a black hole in the blogging world—that there has been a void here since Halloween.

Not because I chose to attempt the 50,000 word masterpiece. Oh no, I truly wished I had. No, but because I had to go out of town and forage for real money. Oddly enough, for some strange reason that didn’t include me making money by writing in my blog. Which, as you may know, has still failed to put me on the Forbes 500 list.

But hey, I’m back from Los Angeles now and with a nasty head cold to prove it, which has left me in a fog. This has left me consuming large quantities of chicken noodle soup, NyQuil, and forcing my wife into singing to me, “Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty ” all the while rubbing Vick’s vapor Rub on my chest. This in an effort to help me recover so that I might rejoin the human race.

Viralfactory.com

Viralfactory.com

Just ask, Sandi, or is it, Sarah, and Mike, or is it, George? She/they vaguely know all about it.

I suspect the cold was courtesy of the airlines and their lovely recycled air. But, I’m having little problem trying to prove that. So that big lawsuit I was planning to file against them? I guess it’s going to have to wait—at least until there’s a cure for the common cold.

I realize this revelation about my recent whereabouts comes as little more than back page news to the John Grisham’s and Mary Higgins Clark’s of the larger narcissistic blogging community—usually located somewhere near the center of the WordPress hurricane of attention.

You know, where Freshly Pressed is located.

But, that’s no doubt due to they’re being too self-absorbed with their own UNPAID writing on their own blogs—unlike you kind folks, who at least take time out of your busy schedule to read mine, and other friends blogs. Makes you wonder what compels those pompous writing windbags to ignore the rest of us, doesn’t it?

This could not possibly be because they erroneously believe that their own blogs feature superior writing to that of our own, surely not. Otherwise, they’d be admitting that they see us as less than serious writers, which would explain why they never come to visit our blogs.

funny-bathroom-artNaturally, such diluted reasoning would only lend itself to the idea, that they couldn’t possibly be bothered with looking at our blogs, as nothing more than exploits consisting of grocery list, love notes to our soul mates, and scribblers of fine graffiti on inner bathroom stalls.

Oh come on, where else would I write?

Anyway, it’s nice to be missed, and I’ve missed you all too. That’s why I’ve been slowly catching up on what you’ve all wrote, and not because of some failed attempt at writing a 50,000 page novel, or desperately trying to compose a Freshly Pressed Post because I see you as unworthy writers of my (currently) comatose attention.

No, I’ve just been sick and tired of having to go earn money, that’s all. A necessary evil, to be sure.

So It’s Mid-August—Whad’ya Mean Summers Over?

summer is over

It used to be that when June rolled around people started looking to get away from it all. Plans were made to escape the everyday grind. No more snow and very little rain meant folks started venturing out again. No more feeling like Jack Nicholson did at the very end of “The Shining.”

Summers over? Already?

Summers over? Already?

By June most of us were ready for the good old summertime. After the Fourth of July holiday had passed, the middle of summer was setting in, thus signaling the time for barbecues with family and friends. By the time August came around, you were ready to take that summer getaway.

But wait… whats this? Our kids have to head back to school mid to late August now? But we haven’t taken our traditional summer family vacation yet. And what bozo made that decision? Whats that? The schools!

Well… lets take vacation anyway—I mean after all, our kids are back in school! Besides, we’ve always taken our summer vacation in August—kids or not!

Okay, okay the kids can come along, but we’ll have to get the teachers to sign off on it. Whad’ya mean the teachers are complaining about having to draw up some homework for the kids to do while they’re on vacation? Don’t they understand its August, and that not all families can take vacations in June or July?

I mean come on, there’s nothing like leaving Disneyland in the middle of the evening to go back to our hotel room, just so we can do hours of homework with the kids.

In fact, I can’t think of anything kids love more. Except maybe having their teeth worked on by the dentist during a root canal.  dentist

Remember when schools used to start the academic year right after the Labor Day holiday—when it really felt like summer was actually nearing its end?

You remember that don’t you? Dad wore his loin-clothe, and mom used a bone in her hair instead of a hairpin, and dinosaurs roamed the earth.

But now schools need your summer vacation money more than ever, and the sooner the better.

If they wait until September to have your kids start school, they run the risk of angering parents when they send home picture day announcements on top of requesting donations for supplies, the cost of gym clothes, PTA memberships, and fund raising (gift wrap is real popular) for the first part of the school year.

And lets not forget special activities like, band, sports, after school clubs, and field trips—not to mention prepaid lunch money.

money on the rollYou don’t mind though, after all, you’ve only gone into hock to buy your kids new clothes so that they won’t attend school in the hand me down rags they’ve worn since the day they were born—and those barely fit! Not to mention backpacks that will be worn out, and school supplies which will be exhausted by Christmas break.

If you ever stop sending your child to school… the schools will go broke! Better you than them though, right?

Why I Have So Little Time To Blog (and other great mysteries in my life you won’t care about)

time

I fear time is not on my side. I wonder if that’s because I stand on the left, and I’m not in my right…?

Anyway, maybe you’ve noticed how everything TAKES time, and have you also noticed…no ransom demand from EVERYTHING yet? Just thought I’d point that out. But, there never seems to be enough time, (And isn’t that just like money, there’s never enough of that either) to do everything we want to do.

The frustrating thing about time is that it can become an enemy. Some quick calculations have told me what I feared to think about when it comes to time (because thinking hurts my brain). One: that blogging and reading the blogs of others must be a figment of my imagination, as time is short. And two: … I’m thinking, I’m thinking…  post

… Oh I remember… why time is short—at least in my case.

And why are these people masquerading as sheep in my dream?

And why are these people masquerading as sheep in my dream?

First of all, there is only 24 hours in a day…I’ve never really bothered to count how many hours in a night (that might be because I’m too busy counting sheep, or people pretending to be sheep). But, I can tell you that practically all the hours in my day (especially the good ones) are all spoken for long before I ever reach my keyboard to work on my blog.

And I believe none of this will help the time/space continuum thing either—not that that is relevant. But those of you who blog here at WordPress, might want to help the rest of us poor saps tell WordPress “To stop mucking around and making a mess of things!” And I think that’s relevant.

Okay, I’m down with it, and off my soapbox. And no, I’m not off my rocker, Ed with no last name from Plainview, Texas! You and I can meet in a dark alley later, Ed.

Anyway, back to my calculations. Now this may be fuzzy math to you (forget logic), but I figure 8 hours of sleep (on a good night, and 30 seconds on a bad nap, but that’s just me). An hour to get ready for work (and I don’t even put makeup on… some days). And an hour to relax when I come home from work (in my dreams).

Then there’s walk the dog, walk the wife, and walk the self just to recover from those walks, and that’s a dead man walking. Help cook dinner (after I wash the morning dishes and last nights left over pots), another hour there, and that’s only if I remembered to let them soak first.

Which I didn’t. DARN!

Help the child with the homework—15 hours! Oh, then there is the nightly budget discussion—but what budget? Heck, I can’t even budget the hours I have in a day (seeing as I don’t have enough hours to work with in the first place, not to mention any grey matter left), much less find time to work on the monetary financial report for the family.

Now that leaves just enough time for…(zzz). Oh, my wife is snoring…again “Honey…honey…oh well, must be another headache night. That makes the 31st time this month, just like last month—only there were 30 days last month!

Let’s see…there are 365 days in a year, and how many times did we…? Well never mind. wife

So where was I? Oh, hours left in a day. According to my calculations (new math, which by now must be old math) that would leave me with… no time for blogging!

I’m going to have to post on this subject tomorrow, because I just ran out of time again.

If It Isn’t Fixed, Don’t Break It

keep up

I love writing, and no doubt you feel the same way about it or you wouldn’t be here. And the thought of writing for dollars, euros, yen, or even the drachma—should it ever make a comeback (which could be any day now)—is a love close to my wallet—and all our bank accounts.

But, there are those among us—hard as it is to believe—who would have us not write at all?

Take my employers for instance. Why, they’ve gone so far as to offer me a bribe to stop writing about what I find funny. They call it a job, but I call it blackmail. It was like they were saying, “Don’t take time to write about anything that strikes your fancy.”

Well, the last time something struck my fancy I was distracted on the court, and that was a tennis ball. Why I would ever want to write about an incident that caused me so much pain, is beyond me. After all…I’m a writer of humor, not a writer about a pain in the…well you know where.

They even went so far as to suggest, that if I were to get busy working on something other than writing about what tickles my fancy (it was hardly a tickle, let me assure you) there might even be a little money in it for me. Hush money no doubt, and likely under the table. They kept referring to it as a paycheck.

Why it boggles the mind the lengths some people will go to in order to prevent us from writing.

Take WordPress, for example. They felt it necessary to sneak in a few changes while I was away. Guess they thought I wouldn’t notice. But, I didn’t recently fall off the planet, I’ve been gone for quite a while.

But, low and behold after only being back a week (because I’m very observant) I realized WordPress had created a whole new reader, and I feel just like one too (a new reader that is).

Being technologically challenged, I was just starting to get the hang of the old reader (not really, but at least I was functional). So the last thing I needed after some R & R was a new challenge—or any challenge for that matter.

Don’t worry though, I’m not going to go into all the unnecessary, non-hassle free changes with the new reader—no, my take on WordPress trying to complicate an already perfectly fine reading process in the first place, will come later—in the tabloids.

At least that way, they (WordPress) will be able to read all about it at their local checkout stand. Its simpler that way, unlike their new complex reader.

Besides, I figure many of you have complained enough already, and I have NOTHING NEW to offer you on the subject—something some of you feel my blog already offers. And don’t you deny it, Sam from Nebraska, as I have your nasty little letter right here!

At least my post has alerted you to the nefarious forces at work, trying to obstruct my ability to write to you on a regular basis. But, rest assured good followers, Sam from Nebraska, and these other ne’er do wells, will not keep this scribe from his appointed post.

Now where did I put my laptop?