The Daily Corona: Quote of the Day

Posted on March 31, 2020 by Ben Gannon

“You’re a bigger pain in the ass than the Coronavirus!”

That was the quote from my ninety something year old friend, Marshall, to his son, Trevor, wishing his father would take this Virus seriously.

Marshall, frustrated with how much his son was going out of his way to keep him alive, also mentioned how he hadn’t planned on licking the streets when on a walk in Los Angeles. Delightful banter.

Living through the Not so Great or Not so Wonderful Depression, I guess Marshall has been through a hell of a lot more than us, so as much as his son tries to help, he’d rather just enjoy the day without worrying about his demise. He’ll probably live longer than us. I guess, selfishly, that’s what we want.

Coughing

Posted on March 26, 2020 by Ben Gannon

Writing is never easy, unless you talk to my wife for less than seven seconds regarding the confused guy she, or even an intelligent child, should replace as the Potus. No disrespect to my wife. (she’s not a child)

My wife recently stated, “I want to cough all over that guy.” (She’s not even from Jersey)

She also wants to beat him up, kick him in the balls, and yada yada yada…….

Britt, my wife, who doesn’t allow me use her real name, is refined enough to only entertain me with this banter in the warmness of our home. I’m choosing to write this because, sadly, I think it’s a little funny, and I enjoy celebrating and sharing her gift of humor. I will also sacrifice my balls if she becomes the next US President. The V.P, of course, will be a mechanical monkey.

I’m so pleased to be on her good side.

Joy

Posted on March 21, 2020 by Ben Gannon

Peanuts, hotdogs, baseball and beer. Oh, and friends appreciating the same, in fact, encouraging you to embrace the wonderful things in life.

Recently speaking to one of the terrific and closest friends in my life, (amongst others…I’m very blessed) and considering the Corona pandemic, I was worried about his health. He’s almost one hundred and thirteen years old. Rather than giving a Yankee dime about his age, or a virus, his focus was on baseball.

I wish everyone in this wild world could hear his passionate voice. “What the Hell about opening Day!?!” He didn’t have to remind me of it, Opening Day has been delayed over health concerns. He watches baseball, coached it, and allowed me to enter his home when we could either watch or listen to any game on TV or the radio. Those were magnificent days. We’d laugh at the announcers, make fun of foolish fans, speak of players’ salaries and then retreat to our home field: Indian Stadium in Spokane, Washington. One dollar hotdogs and beer. Best dogs ever. I guess you could wonder if we were the best dogs in the stadium. I’m tired of wondering. On those glorious evenings, amidst the lights in a balmy seventy degree city, we found joy. I still can’t thank him enough.

The games? It didn’t matter to me who was winning. Believe me, I HATE losing, and I LOVE winning. Anyone telling you differently is selling something. This fellow made me recognize how we can love something, and for three hours, forget about everything else.

Marshall St. John, my friend, encouraged me to enjoy the very, very difficult and wonderful sport of baseball. Opening day will be missed, but our games will not be forgotten.

Voices

Posted on March 19, 2020 by Ben Gannon

Singing commercial jingles. Is there something wrong with my wife?

That’s her thing. She loves singing along to terrifically poor commercial jingles. I wish it didn’t make me laugh or smile. Actually, my wish to laugh and smile is critical. She grants me that.

Lee Marvin in Paint Your Wagon

It all changed with this pesky and raspy cold or flu people are getting. After taking days off of work, the voice I heard singing the jingles suddenly sounded similar to Rod Stewart, Louis Armstrong, Lee Marvin and Morgan Freeman. I thought it was funny. So did she…sort of. She just didn’t care to be to compared with elderly male celebrities. I had to leave the room when she laughed while doing spot on impersonations of these people while wildly sick.

Regulations

Posted on March 10, 2020 by Ben Gannon

Self regulation. What does this mean regarding student behavioral issues? Let’s just say our children, and their children, and their children, are screwed. The whole world may be going to Hell accompanied by therapists descending on pallets. The demands and approach to teaching middle school these days are certainly different from when I was teaching, and the teachers I helped hire were not interviewed for their yoga skills. Let me digress.

“Yoga and teaching middle school student minds”… I feel dreadfully sorry for my teacher friend, Clark, who is forced to recommend both when someone doesn’t turn in an assignment. Rather than explaining to the student, who requires essential skills for becoming an adult, why he or she is receiving an “F” for not turning this mysteriously pesky paper, a counselor advised him that the student needs both counseling and Yoga. According to the counselor, this student also needs self regulation.

Clark, is a well respected math/science teacher, and he loves baseball. You’re hired. With brutal honesty, years ago, after he was late for his interview, we had a proper or, to me, improper list of questions. Much to the dismay of our Principal, who for some odd reason liked me, I delivered the first interview question. “What’s the score of the Mariner game?” After being caught in traffic between Walla Walla, Washington, home of the minor league Sweets, and his destination, Spokane, Washington, home of the former Indians, current drunks and gamblers, I only required one answer. Three to two, Yankees on top. Discovering he wasn’t a Yankee, I thought that was a proper conclusion to beginning and continuing story of his beloved career. I was fired shortly after the interview. Actually I wasn’t, but probably should have been.

Clark’s students will remain unemployed if they don’t take his advice. Self regulation is just a couple of BS words. Not only do they not know the ABC’s, or a time’s table unless it’s sitting next to a cell phone, they don’t understand that life is mainly regulated by “the man”. Because of Clark, they do know the ABC’s and the times. They also know how to juggle.

Staple your papers. Turn in your assignments. Even if you hate it, buckle your seatbelt. If you don’t, crap will follow you. So will the cops.

The Right In?

Posted on March 6, 2020 by Ben Gannon

Although these are delicate subjects, I may still approach them with poor taste. Voting during this time is absolutely necessary, and is not difficult. Providing a “Write In” candidate on the ballot isn’t difficult either, particularly as an alternative to our current President. Witnessing someone enter “Corona Virus” as a Write In entry for the Republican candidate was interesting. I shouldn’t have been looking at her ballot, but she highlighted it with stars as well as a skull and crossbones. If I knew her, I would have suggested a Mr. Yuck sticker. One could discern she, literally, wished this virus to defeat the POTUS. It didn’t make me laugh, but it did make me think.

I can’t sit at this computer and pretend I know much about politics like I know baseball and people in general. Sometimes, I’ll humor those who attempt to engage me with banter about politics. If we agree, the conversation may last a few minutes. If we don’t, I diffuse the subject within seconds unless I feel, even if I disagree, they may have a valid point. I must then proceed to enlighten them with a fart….not literally, but in a manner where the conversation can either continue with something a little more light hearted, or end with the slam of the phone. Actually, we can’t even do that anymore because of cell phones. They are far too precious, and, more importantly, expensive. (I miss those land lines. ) Think about it. If some disgusting cave dweller decides to fart in mid-sentence, you must change the subject, unless the conversation is about flatulence.

For no more than five minutes, I’ll listen to a politician on TV drone on in front of strange mobs chanting their names, and I wonder if they are just following those surrounding them or actually listening. I may watch for seven minutes, but I can only listen for five. This is when the viewer should have the right to dub in a fart to change the subject, or else I’m changing the channel.

People have the right to love or hate our President. It’s an essential part of our Constitutional Rights. It’s America. However, it’s not always what makes America good or “Great” again. The current POTUS is clearly a good politician, but in this case, he’s more of a good magician. He convinces good people to believe in things that make even my dastardly eyes roll and generate “what the F are you talking about” looks. This POTUS is a great magician, but he is not, and let me be clear, he is not a good man. In fact, I just think he’s abjectly evil. That’s just my opinion, and a little over the top to some, but I have the right to my opinion. I’ve witnessed him turn friends into enemies and brothers and sisters who once unconditionally loved one another question that love. What’s good or great about that?

After doing something stupid, which I commonly do, I will remind my wife that I am a good man, I’m just not a very good wizard. She laughs and agrees. I’m also extremely good at apologizing, because I’ve had to do it frequently over the course of my 47 year career as a human. Can you imagine the POTUS apologizing for anything? No. That’s flat out shameful.

Contrition is a valuable commodity. Embrace it. (Let’s not even start talking about humility….HA!) Admit when you’re wrong and repent when you are wrong again. I don’t think that’s in the Constitution, but it should be. It usually garners some form of respect, for which I have none of for the POTUS.

“Fart proudly.” That’s a direct quote from Benjamin Franklin.

47 Cakes

Posted on February 26, 2020 by Ben Gannon

Happy Birthday! Is it?!!! It’s quite basically an obligation to feel good.

I had to wish someone happy birthday today. He is about my age, and I hope he didn’t give a crap if I said it or not. He probably didn’t want me to acknowledge it, but since I work with him on a daily basis, it’s better to be on the safe side of the cake.

My birthday always felt like Thanksgiving. That’s what it really was. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday and my birthday transformed it to a relatively easy Thanksgiving for my mother. German chocolate cake, and shake and bake chicken for everyone. Wish granted.

Growing up as a hillbilly, we didn’t have parties. We didn’t have ho downs We had two cows, Ferdinand and Issabella, sniffing at our screen door waiting for their dessert. As the youngest of 13, the only rule was to wait for the candles to ignite and then blow them out to defuse the potential catastrophe.

Don’t get me wrong. Or, maybe you can. There’s nothing wrong with taking an adventure to Sir Charles of the Cheddar Cheese Factory or dry heaving to the smell of dirty socks on your birthday. Just don’t invite me. The last one spent with Chucky was for one of my many nephews, Quinn. Someone invited to the party was a neighbor who had her nose recently bitten off by a dog. She was a foul and angry cuss. The party guest, not the dog. (That’s not funny. That’s not funny at all.) Actually, it was a little funny because she showed up to the party wearing a costume….according to the other guests who thought they missed that memo. Fully recovered from the injury, it did leave scars. The doctors replaced her nose with a clown like prosthetic. It was a chunk of flesh they took from her hind side. That’s not funny either. However, this not being the merriest of neighbors, she would lecture the dog daily about staying out of their yard. She did it in such a fashion which eventually would lead to her nose’s demise and embarrassment. Ultimately, after the settlement, she was furnished with a new house, a car and a dose of vanity. One guest at the party walked up to her and, unknowingly, said in the dimmed lights of Chucky Cheese’s palace for hungover adults, “I didn’t know this was a costume party”. She thought the victim was dressed as a clown. According to my brother and I, evidently, clowns can make you chuckle.

I was invited to many of these parties only costing me fifty dollars a pop donated to a child I didn’t even know. Crappy pizza, flat beer, and awkward conversations with the guy dressed up as a mouse wishing me to pour a beer down his dirty costume was just downright uncomfortable.

I feel sorry for the guy who is turning 47 today, because it will be the fourth birthday he must celebrate this year with his two children and wife. All he wants for his birthday is a nice dinner at a decent restaurant. He never gets to choose where this restaurant is, because his wife can veto any of his choices, resulting with them going a restaurant of her choice. Poor bastard.

It’s his birthday penance. He told me once he personally suffered during his own B-Day party at the age of ten. He had an uninvited brother, age 8, sneaking into his special party. After embarrassing his brother with insults and “get the hell out of my party, you twerp. Scram!!” in front of his friends, my friend was beckoned by his father to join him upstairs for a private meeting of the buns. He was wailed on 10 times, and then told he would be the age of 50 if he didn’t welcome his younger brother to participate with kindness and respect. End of story. As the youngest of 13 children, I never was surrounded by this environment. My older siblings were too busy eating and drinking their presents to even acknowledge my presence.

The last birthday I thoroughly didn’t enjoy took part in a classroom. My middle school students, their parents, and other relatives decided to interrupt our class by surprising me with a party. No beer, just cookies, soda, cake and students too strung out on glucose crack to participate with further lessons. It did teach me a lesson. Never tell a middle school student which day your birthday lands on the calendar. If you wish to torture a fellow teacher, tell one of his or her students that tomorrow is his or her birthday, even if it isn’t. They will never forgive you, which was my plan in the first place. I paid my dues. Let them pony up as well. Mayhem results and spite usually conquers all.

Happy Birthday….even it’s belated, or early….even better!

My next complaint will be to the editor. It is with regards to the Lord of all Sins: Surprises.

Southpaw

Posted on February 17, 2020 by Ben Gannon

My wife is impossible. She’s just so unreasonable. She also scares me. Luckily, she is married to a man who uses reason, patience and kindness when dealing with her and our animals. For months, she had been bugging me about getting a cat. Well, now we have one. It’s the same old story all the time. “Oooh….look at that cat. It’s so cute. I’ll take care of it, I promise.” While she’s working three jobs, guess who will be taking care of it? Yeah. Exactly. Me. It burns and scratches my ass……quite literally.

Our cat, Otis, has his own personnel key to our house. It’s actually a key to any room in our house. We named him after my wife’s favorite character in The Andy Griffith Show, and he seems to be living up to his name. Otis spends much of his time in his cell, or pantry number one after he’s had a snootful of catnip. He sleeps it off, receives a terrific breakfast from his Aunt B (my wife, Britt) and we wave him goodbye until the next weekend. Sometimes, if he staggers into the pantry, he begins meowing uncontrollably. We then read him a book by Dr. Seuss or sing him a song titled Cat Scratch Fever. This and these antics which follow are eerily similar to those exhibited by Otis Campbell on the A.G. Show.

Sometimes, he can’t find the pantry. He may be passed out in the office, one of our closets, in the dishwasher, beneath the couch, or head first in one of our many urns occupied by former pets using their ashes as though they are his stadium’s many toilets.

Having never witnessed Otis Campbell throw a punch, I couldn’t tell if he was right or left handed. Our Otis is definitely a southpaw, and I have the scars to prove it. Sure, just like a champ, he’ll set you up with several right jabs and then surprise you with a vicious left claw. My wife wonders why our blankets and pillow cases look like a crime scene in the morning. DNA central.

Once, after we returned home from dinner, we found him riding around on our dog, a one hundred pound canine. Otis weighs just over a pound. This was after he found the key to the catnip cabinet. Just like Barney Fife, I convinced my wife to allow me to provide some necessary form of rehabilitation. After detoxing throughout the night, I started by giving him the renowned Sylvester the Cat Rorschach test. After displaying a number of pictures, each response was the same. “Tell me what you see on this piece of paper.” Meow. “How about this one?” Meow. The third one he just pissed on. He looked at Britt with pleading eyes, and she laughingly dismissed him. She thinks everything Otis does is funny. She and Otis need to have their own act in Vaudeville. I didn’t find it funny at all.

I did get back at him once. Attempting to exercise on the treadmill, Otis came wobbling into the room. He was fascinated by the treadmill. With my legs moving, I remained stationary. Instead of asking me, he just jumped on the treadmill, and after several cat rolls, went flying against the wall. He hasn’t been on it since. That made me laugh.

Ultimately, Otis is a pretty affable cat, and we can’t help but love him. You have to, don’t you? Just like you and your good for nothing, booger eating, pants pooping, can I borrow some money (borrow?….that’s a laugh) will you watch them for the night, soon to be spending time in the County Jail children.

My parents loved me. Well, I’m pretty sure they did.

Youth Group and The Simpsons

Posted on February 6, 2020 by Ben Gannon

In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy spirit.

That’s how we’d begin the Catholic confessional process. Then, there was, Bless me Father for I have sinned.

Let thee who is innocent or clear of sin cast the first stone…..or something like that. In Spokane, Washington, evidently everyone who attends church on Sunday is clear of sin, because after mass, the parish members would be casting stones immediately, both figuratively and literally. You had the National Inquirer old bags gossiping in the parking lot, and you had the children, including me, actually participating in a rock fight on the church’s property. The old men would just be smoking.

It’s great to feel free of sin. Guilt is awful. I don’t go to confession anymore, but this blog can become my sort of confessional medium. In addition to confessing some of my past sins, I’ll take the liberty to confess a few of my friends’ and brother’s sins…..without their permission of course.

Growing up in the Catholic church, one of the many sacred and ridiculous items to check off your pious list was to attend Youth Group one night a week. Depending on the year you were born, these classes would be held on either a Sunday or Monday night when you were in high school. They were preparing us for conformation…..sort of a half ass way of creating a transformation for children of God to Men and Women of God. You sat in these two to three hour sessions amongst students throughout the Spokane Valley, also parishioners, led by some poor soul searching man or woman preach to us about Heaven and Hell. Let’s just say it wasn’t on the 17 or 18 year olds’ wish list of things to do on a Sunday or Monday night.

I blame my brothers for many of my abominable sins. Their Youth Group sessions were on Monday nights. So, when I was home watching Monday Night Football with our father, my two older brothers would leave the house heading toward St. John’s for their weekly 6 o’clock pain dispenser. I’d smile wryly as they’d leave the house. They’d do it by way of the nearest pizza parlor providing the game on television. Not only did they skip the meetings, one of my brothers, a senior in high school, had a fake identification card so he could buy the pitchers of beer. (he is now a reverend, compliments of the Internet) It didn’t take me long to figure out why they were so happy and a little wobbly when they’d return. I was old enough to figure it out. I was also smart enough not to rat them out for fear of a severe beating. You didn’t have to sign in to these meetings, and the twenty something teacher never called our home to ask where they were, probably afraid of the same thing I was afraid of. I think my wise mother figured it out and didn’t care. Dad would be in bed when they’d return so there was no time for questions. We already knew how to recite the Our Father, Hail Mary, The Apostle’s Creed and dozens of other written statements pounded into our head once a week at church. If there were questions, my brothers would open a bible and pick any book according to Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John and quickly discern something they hadn’t discussed in a class they didn’t attend. It was one of their favorite nights of the week. Now I have to repent for confessing someone else’s sins. I just recited ten Hail Marys. That should be good enough to move on to the following paragraph disclosing one of my own.

By the time I was a senior, after attending the classes religiously as a Junior, I thought that was enough. My brother, the future reverend, was now living in an apartment on the Spokane River. This became my fortress of irreverent solitude on Sunday nights. Although Greg, (oops, I said his name) worked weekends, I had befriended his roommate (an agnostic) who was old enough to buy adult beverages. Instead of going to Youth Group, which became Youth Puke to us, I’d head to their place to drink beer and watch The Simpsons. It was delightful. I swear I learned more from The Simpsons than anything I’d learn at Youth Group.

It was there I’d eventually receive my certificate of confirmation. Never getting bed wetting drunk, just a few beers, I’d leave reciting a semi genuine act of contrition and, by grace of God, return home safely.

In the name of The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,

Amen.

The Dreadmill

Posted on January 31, 2020 by Ben Gannon

I hate working out. I despise gyms, and, these days, I just don’t care for running at all. Growing up, working out was easy because there was a goal I wished to achieve. As a high school running back, I had to avoid defenses. As a part time hoodlum, I had to run away from cops. (only a few times) So, I did enjoy sprinting, but there really isn’t any need to now. However, staying moderately physically fit is a goal for all of us, so I do practice my walking skills on a daily basis. Knowing my frequent walks from the couch to the refrigerator is not what the doctor orders, I walk at the park with our dog and we also have a treadmill. This morning at around 3:46, well let’s just round it up to 3:47, I was wide awake with my wife sleeping by my side along with our dog, Laney, at my feet, and our cat, Otis, purring atop my head. I decided it would be a terrific time to let them sleep further while I put some time in on our treadmill. Sleep is critical for my wife since she works three jobs, one being a nighttime security guard at Bed Bath and Befraud.

The room housing our treadmill is a tricky one. Located adjacent to our bedroom, the T.V. must be off in our bedroom because starting the treadmill will blow a fuse disabling the treadmill and the lights in the room. (Reasons for this are unclear which is why I’m trying to convince my wife to finish her electrician apprenticeship.) I made the mistake of starting the treadmill before turning off the lights leaving me in complete darkness. That was o.k.. I just quietly walked downstairs to the garage and flipped the breaker back to on. My wife heard me going down the stairs and advised me to grab a flashlight before working both the treadmill and the I Pod we use to watch while working out. Good advice. I didn’t listen.

I walked back into the darkness, and the treadmill was lit up again and since I once took a braille reading class at The Biloxi Technical Institute For Those Thinking They May Go Blind Someday, I successfully located the start and stop buttons in addition to button determining the level of speed I preferred. Five minutes into my walk, I’d forgotten about the I Pad. So, because I hate stopping for anything during a workout, and the fact I’m an idiot, and the additional fact I am the most impatient person in the world, I decided to work the computerized apparatus in the cavelike darkness.

Losing control of the I Pad and moving at the speed of a juiced up turtle, I decided to stop walking on the treadmill while it was still moving. Not completely awake yet, I witnessed an optical illusion. The glowing face of the treadmill was moving away from me giving me the perception it was going to crash into the wall directly in front of it. I tried to reach out and save it with every inch of my insanity. It wasn’t moving. It was I who was moving away from the screen. I had been velocitized. This I didn’t realized until the treadmill flung me backwards into the nearest wall creating a noise only my family and neighbors could hear. I knew it had awakened my wife when she bellowed, “Are you O.K.!”, as she was racing toward the room. I also heard our cat, Otis, bellow, “Can’t a cat get any sleep around here?” I guess our dog, Laney, was so terrified and worried she rolled her eyes.

My wife, Britt, entered the room, turned on the lights and found me, back against the wall and covered in a heap of suit cases once peacefully standing behind me. If embarrassment is being “o.k.” well then I guess I was. Otherwise, I had not suffered multiple contusions or even a minor concussion and my hernias were intact.

Laughing at me Britt asked with finality, “Why didn’t you use the flashlight like I suggested?” Thanks, Britt. Like I wasn’t suffering enough on the floor at 4:13 in the morning.

Swing Like a Wild Man

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