Passing Pride

“Fart Proudly.”  That’s a quote from Benjamin Franklin.   Evidently, Ben was a discerning man, especially when it came to gas taxes and Turkeys.  Further observing one of our Nation’s greatest holidays, Ben voted for the turkey over the Balding Eagle as our Nation’s symbol of recognition.

Post Thanksgiving, our dog and cat recommended I seek help following the five day stretch of the Thanksgiving feast.

Recognizing my gas being exceptionally offensive during and following the Thanksgiving Days, I have checked myself into a two room flatulence rehab center: One room is for me, and the other is for my delicate, and quite unfortunate, release of, well, farts.  Many won’t appreciate my condolences when renting this room following my departure, and for that, I am truly sorry.

Ultimately, we are all human waste.

I just hope I’m allowed back in our house.

Hopefully, she says, “This too shall pass.”

Just Some Stuffing

peanuts-thanksgivingStuff this and dress that.  I do love the dressing and the stuffing.  Dark or white turkey?  I’ll take both with a splash of gravy.  (No one knows the difference if good gravy is on anything.)  Yams and Sweet potatoes really aren’t my thing, but what the hell, I’ll try them both.  Marshmallows on top of the dish only cloud the potatoes exceptional nutritional value.

I’ll even give a shout out to green bean casserole. (“Casserole” being one of the most difficult dishes to spell but easiest to make.)

Apple and Pumpkin Pie can fight amongst themselves for a bit, but eventually get along, once the proper whipped cream makes the decision not worthy of fighting.

Thank you, food.

Good Gravy

 

 

Bottled Water: 1976

Born in 1973, I guess I knew what bottled milk was, but bottled water?…..  I’m still getting used to the idea.

In 1976, my brother, Steve, didn’t know what bottled water was either.  Since we came from a town with reliable tap water, why would the idea of bottling it cross our cave dwelling minds? Bottled water to Steve, and many others, was as inconceivable as a man landing on the moon.  He heard it had happened in 1969, but similar to others, Steve requested moon rocks to confirm it.  Bottled water was no exception.

My brother, Steve, was in Cleveland, Ohio during the 1976 Wrestling Olympic Trials.  As a former National Collegiate Wrestling Champion, he was qualified for the trials.  Clearly, his opponents would be formidable, but according to him, not quite as intimidating as the tap water in Cleveland.  While staying at a local Cleveland Sheridan, Steve, after a lengthy workout, tasted the water in his hotel room.  His description of the water was less than delightful.

“It was a milky substance tasting as though it had also ran through a 1927 garden hose.”

After a call to the front desk, Steve informed the clerk, with detail, something was wrong with the water, and other guests should be notified before drinking it.  The desk clerk’s response was simple.

“You didn’t drink any of that water, did you?”

“Well, Yes!”

“Sir, everyone knows they shouldn’t drink any of our water out of the tap.”

“Well, I’m not everyone!  What the hell am I supposed to drink?!!”

“Bottled water, Sir.”

“What the Hell is that?”

“It’s water in a bottle which has been distilled and packaged for consumption when common tap water is filled with human waste, as well as many other animal’s less than agreeable releases.”

“Ok.  Can you send some of that stuff up here?”

Steve never qualified for the Olympics, but he is still alive and drinking tap water.

 

 

 

The Boring Twenties

Taking a road trip with my one hundred and twenty year old, or something, mom, provides sweet humor.  I think she’s only one hundred and thirteen.  When it comes to her age, she tends to lie. Our driver was equally amused with our mother’s lack of age driven acknowledgement.

Hard of hearing, my mother required being shouted to from the backseat.  I made a critical mistake by thinking it may be fun asking her questions from our local newspaper.  It’s referred to as the “Super Quiz”.  Ironically, or just by coincidence, the subject of the quiz was, “The 1920’s”.   Since my mother was born before or during the 1920’s, depending on her mood, I thought she’d nail the answers.   The first question of this quiz was, “The “blank” Twenties.”  Our driver, one of her six daughters, quickly, had the answer.

“The Roaring Twenties”.

My mother, apparently tossing her hearing aid out the window prior to my inquisition, decided it would be better to just read lips.  She looked at our driver and responded, “The Boring Twenties?!!”

Following our laughter, our mother fell asleep after reading, out loud, several road signs.

 

The Gizard of Oz

Some house guests are commonly stressful.  Usually, they piss and leave other unsavory waste all over your house before leaving.  Even if you love them, you shouldn’t be ashamed while rejoicing their departure.

Almost a year ago, we had a house guest. After two days, unusually, we didn’t want him to leave, and were sad when his grandmother picked him up and pried him from our warm, live hands. His name was Gizmo.  He was a small canine making immediate friends with our two, much larger, and grateful dogs.

As much as we try to please our dogs, and a few homeless cats, squirrels, and chickadees, there is nothing like a new, ambitious dog to light the fire beneath two enormous, flammable dogs.  Gizmo did just this…  figuratively speaking.

While staying at our house, Gizmo ate when he was supposed to eat, crapped where he was supposed to crap, and pissed only once in the cat box, which we thought was funny.  (Our pretentious cat didn’t find it so amusing.)   After providing the cat with some nip, and before his nap, and with terrific arrogance while wearing one of his Harvard ties,  our cat purred, “Don’t let this happen again”.

Gizmo didn’t require an Ivy League tie.  Rather, he was a perfect gentleman and a delightful guest, despite our cat’s poor behavior.  After eating, Giz would also try, with all paws, to do the dishes.  He would bark at you in the general direction of the kitchen if you even attempted to clean a plate in his fortress of solitude.

I seldom use the word, “cute”.  However, my wife and I tossed it around relentlessly when this eight pound dog took charge of our house within minutes upon arrival.  Our “plus one hundred” pound dogs found Gizmo equally adorable.  They, Jack and Etta, both barked with pleasure walking around with him in a house lacking a little energy.  They were also sad to see him leave.

Gizmo did leave our house, but it was with great pleasure anticipating his return. Honestly, how often do you wish a guest to return before you take a six month nap?  The Giz ruined that theory.

Sadly, Giz won’t return because he has retired to the great and glorious open field in heaven to run, piss, and, hopefully, make new friends.  I haven’t told our one remaining dog the sad news.  I figure he is stressed enough about about our new President.

Rest and Play, Giz.

 

 

Unpatriotic Shakes

My wife and I officially completed our duty as Americans by casting our votes last week. Fortunately, I didn’t cast them in those, once revered, blue United States Mail Boxes, making certain mail was to be delivered without being stolen.  According to the U.S. Mail Box Outlet Barn I use when the rain keeps our local mailmen or women at home, I was told, specifically, not to use the mailboxes outside their outlet because people commonly pour unfinished chocolate milkshakes, including other refuse, from the local McDonald’s into the box after closing time.  It made me so proud to be an American.  It also reminded me of how proud I am of the two Presidential candidates.

Our Favorite Holiday (7) Moods

Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Jewish rituals.  All respected and appreciated by my father, but no holiday compared to game seven of the World Series.  As a man of faith, he attended church more than regularly, but he appreciated both the love of baseball and the fact game seven of the World Series wasn’t deemed as a Holy Day.  Rather, he left us believe it would be a hope, or future treasure chest filled with nostalgia which we could open years later and say, “We watched that game with our dad.”   We didn’t have to go to church on these days.

Rather than inviting people over, he’d only allow pedestrians in if they were interested in the game.  Following the game, you must stay off the phone, because one of his great friends, annually, would call him after the final out.  If you stayed off the phone, and watched the game with popcorn wedged in your teeth, game seven was more than just a good mood.

Politics and Baseball

Currently, there are two major competitive series playing out this season of the witch or pitch, depending how you look at it.  One remains a Fall Classic, and the other has, decidedly, become a Fall Catastrophe.

Let’s make this simple.  Hilary Clinton and Donald Trump wish to run our country. Neither of whom have any respect for one another, in addition to women and e-mails.  Important U.S. and foreign policies have vanished, clouded by their adolescent behavior and disagreements.  So, let’s take a giant leap to Major League Baseball.  Here we have two teams, the Chicago Cubs, and the Cleveland Indians fighting for one of the most coveted of all trophies.  They are fighting, civilly, to win the World Series.  Yet, they don’t hate each other.  Quite the contrary.  They want to win at all fair costs, but each team and manager will tip their hats to the winner, recognizing one manager may successfully outwit the other, or his team may just be that terrific on a certain day.

Cubs fans don’t hate or disrespect the Indians, and the Indians don’t hate, nor do they disrespect the Cubs.  Both teams, on each side of the National and American Leagues, have fantastic, yet wildly different managers, but equally exceptional at their jobs, AND, they respect one another and their teams. While they are two opposing teams, they are each a fine display of non partisan sportsmanship.

I’m holding my official vote before I make this proposal.  If the Cleveland Indians win the World Series tonight, Terry Francona, manager of the Cleveland Indians, will get my vote for President of the United States and Joe Maddon, manager of the Chicago Cubs, will get my nod as Vice President.  If the Chicago Cubs win, Maddon will get my vote as President, but only if Francona runs as his Vice.

Due to the fact both managers would agree on not putting up a “Wall” since many of their most talented players couldn’t climb that “Wall” in time for Spring Training, just might make for an amicable political relationship.  Or, you may just believe they are caring and competent humanitarians, persuading those in our country to believe it can be better.  Just ask the Cubs and Indian fans.

It’s just that simple.

Your Roots

Similar to questioning one’s faith, I am questioning who I’m rooting for to win the World Series.  I’ve never been an avid Cubs fan, but I’ve been to Wrigley Field.  Does that somehow qualify me as being a year long fan?  I don’t know.  I like the Cleveland Indians, but I’ve never been to the garden city, so I’m a bit torn.  Therefore, one must always, beyond a coin flip, decide which way they should root.  Two of my best friends, my brother, Tom, and a dear old man, Marshall, are rooting for the Indians.  They are the only ones, (inside of my circle of nonsense), I know rooting for the Indians, and they share the same birthdate.  Is this ironic or just coincidental?  Only the late, great George Carlin could answer this question.  For me, I’ve decided it’s all about game seven.  That’s all I really care about. Ultimately, I say, “Piss on games one through five. Let’s root for games six and seven!”

Disclosure:  (Assuming the Cubs win game five)