Boris Johnson, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, who looks like a muppet, (that’s mean) is in the intensive care unit with the Corona Virus. He ignored the virus before taking it seriously. I don’t know much about Boris, but a friend of mine said, “He is more intelligent than Trump.” My reply was, “Who isn’t?”
“Broken Furniture” sounds like a song I may or may not have heard as an infant. I did, however, grow up with a band of sisters and brothers whose only instruments were their fists and shouts. According to our friend, Vic, we lived in a madhouse. This is nonfictional.
Our friend, Vic, tells me stories about this madhouse when I was too young to remember the stories. Actually, I wasn’t even born before Vic began studying our family values. Those values included breaking furniture, bloodying noses and saying “Grace” before dinner. This was followed by more broken furniture, backyard wrestling and sleeping on the lawn if they didn’t settle down.
Vic once asked my father a logical question , wondering if we were poor, “Can’t you afford new furniture?”
Our father responded with equal logic. “We’ll buy new furniture when they are all gone. It would be a ridiculous waste of money if we paid for it now.”
Vic couldn’t help but understand and laugh.
An old man and his son.
Mark vs. Trevor…
Calmly, “You shouldn’t sit on those community benches.”
Not so calmly, “Why not! People don’t sit on them bare ass naked!”
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.
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.
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.
Fondue and my sister Mary … a combination both annual and epic. Mary would invite the neighborhood to her Christmas Eve party, leaving the guests with a sense they should have left left before the damn, or water, was breaking.
Christmas Eve, for me, was the best of holidays, with the exception of Thanksgiving. My brothers and I would show up to Mary’s catered event, with first class service from Sister Mary, knowing we would eat and drink well. We were never disappointed.
We also knew when to properly leave. My brothers, Tom, Greg and I could smell the fondue turn when it was time to leave. It must have been limburger cheese. The event began with Mary welcoming you into her abode with deviled eggs and a beer before you crossed her porch rug reading, “Proceed with caution.” The devil? Eggs? Beer? What could go wrong?
It only took us, Mary’s brothers, two hours to consume the appetizers, beer, and atmosphere. All of which were terrific. The younger generation would follow without extreme caution. We knew better when it was time to leave.
Much like limburger cheese, Greg, Tom and I could smell that fondue melting. Chairs were tipped over, plates were falling on the floor or being flung across rooms. I don’t know what it’s like to be cremated, but my brothers and I witnessed Mary’s first layer of skin drooping from her once jovial face. Now, it was transforming to a grimace. Sorry, Mary, but we must get going. “Good! You better leave before I have to kick these other assholes out of my house. I’m ready to take a flame thrower to this place!”
We’d exit peacefully and look forward to her annual call the next day explaining why the devil wore an ugly sweater that night. We didn’t care. We loved it, and we loved her.
Mary Christmas.
My sister has a plague in her bathroom, She’s a nut, but I love her unconditionally .
She made a mistake with her spelling. It was plaque verses a plague. What do you do with locusts in your bathroom? Call the yellow pages.
To her benefit, she was looking at a plaque in her bathroom . She does not have a plague .
Those silly plaques . They get us every time .
New York City’s famous nickname “The Big Apple” wasn’t named after the forbidden fruit. The term was used to describe “something most significant of its kind; an object of desire and ambition.”
Playoff baseball is right around the hot corner, and the Yankees will be right in the mix. That’s when the big apples leave for equally significant cities and you can find all the big A-Holes at Yankee Stadium
Go anyone but the Yankees!
My wooden arm only lasted one day.
School was in session this week for those educators and pupils young and old, and I began to remember, as a retired teacher, what the first day would bestow upon the students.
As a former middle school teacher, I once entered the classroom on the first day of school acting as if I had a wooden arm. I don’t really know why. Perhaps, I just wasn’t prepared and I thought I’d just wing it. (I hate puns….that was purely accidental). It wasn’t my first year of teaching. I just wanted to shake things up a bit by providing some mystery on the first day of new clothes, possible friends and enemies as well as their newest teacher. I developed the idea from some friends of mine walking around at parties similar to the police officer’s antics from Mel Brook’s Young Frankenstein. This enforcer was a one armed ornery cuss who would place sharp objects in his arm, such as darts, just to keep track of them. My friends would have to move the fake wooden arm with their, quite capable left, (very scientific flirting) wishfully attracting the attention of girls. They did attract attention, yet only making the girls stray. The girls were indeed silent with intrigue. Emptying my plastic cup of stale beer, I recognized how this could assist me in my professional career as a teacher.
When the, “what the hell did you do this summer?” essay, annually introduced by other teachers, I felt as though it sunk beneath the students’ ears and sailed aimlessly above their heads like dusty glue only burnout teachers could clinch to themselves taking comfort in their inauguration assignments.
I chose a different route. Evidently, middle schoolers are terrified of prosthetic limbs. My wooded arm made its appearance before attendance call. Stiff angled right arm was also in attendance. Making myself three quarters present, my students were silent for almost a full period upon my entrance. Unless you discount middle school day dreamers wishing to be home by the end of my preposterous scene, they would have given me an award for phoniest teacher.
By the end of the period, with mostly silence, other than a call of attendance, I began looking aimlessly and helplessly for my pencil and pen holder. Asking if anyone had seen it and describing it as a plastic great white shark with its mouth agape, they turned their eyes to the floor and elsewhere, either trying to help me or wonder when the actual lesson may begin. The bright students believed in the phony arm, but they also thought I snuck into this school acting as if I was actually a qualified teacher, or just a bum who found some khakis left behind the thrift store along with a button upped collared shirt.
We continued our search for the pencil holder as if we were searching for the Northwest Passage. Collectively, we became the middle school corp of discovery. One bold student asked me why this was so important to me. I told her it was a gift holding dark memories for me, yet it was almost critical we find it together. She was further mystified. Is our teacher just flat out mad? “Have any of you seen it?” Most of them just stared in silence while others provided an awkwardly slow shake of their head. I then stared at my right arm with disgust, fingers molded firmly for more than a half hour with elbow cocked in one position forming a right angle with my forearm and bicep. Giving up hope on finding the pencil holder, I took my free left hand and lifted a sharpened pencil and said, not with anger or force, yet with subtle desperation, I have a place for this pencil. I was going to jab it into my wooden arm.
After the gasp, I displayed my proper upper torso and was embraced by the students . Then, I was informed, by my wonderful principal, Ms. Hoffman, who would fly by my room from time to time on her broom, I was never to pull that crap again. One of my students had a relative who had lost his arm in a boating accident. Not funny. I obliged. Ms. Hoffman and I still laugh about it whenever we speak. She took great care of me, and was probably the only employer who could stop me in my tracks without being tripped.
The year went well, not without its glitches, and I can assure you, I pissed off plenty of students, parents and administration members along the way. I can also say I taught them how to respect themselves, others, education and, yes, even a man with two arms,two legs, a full heart and half a brain. At times, many could say I didn’t do everything the right way. I didn’t. That’s the beauty of it all. I recognized it. Those who thought they were always doing it the right way, sometimes missed the boat. That boat could be surrounded by sharks.