The G List

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Treading in luke and lewd warm water the other day, I decided to edit a great deal of my blog when it concerned pot and R -74.  No, not RG Three.  I don’t think he’s gay, and I don’t care if he is.  I know he’s black and I don’t care about that either.  It’s similar to me just not caring about pot or homosexuality.  I’m far too selfish to think about things I’m not involved with.  Personally, I’m hetero all the way, but this new law could be the gateway law allowing people like me to enter into marriage with another heterosexual dude.  I’ve often thought about it, because guys are just much easier than gals.  That’s why I’ve made a list of really good friends I would consider marrying. However, there would definitely be clauses and a prenuptial agreement. (I’m happily married to a female, but if she leaves me for a woman, I need to start preparing.) For a long while, when activists would approach me with issues concerning gay marriage, I would respond with, “I’m not just against gay marriage, I’m against all marriage.  It’s just one big bad dream.”

The list:

Ok, I hope I made everyone nervous.  You know who you are.  I will disappoint my six brothers who are not on the list, along with all of my nephews.  Sorry.  That’s just weird. With respect for your privacy, I’ll leave your names off this blog, but I will text and tweet about you.  No one sees that crap, right?

The clauses:

1) You must be heterosexual.

2)Shaking hands…..fine, but no holding them unless said spouse is on his deathbed after overdosing on hot wings and bacon.

3)No cards, just sticky notes.

4)No smoking pot.  This may strike you as strange, but I like a husband who is more smarter than me.  Legend has it, smoking that wacky tobaccy, only makes you appear extremely dumb.  I need someone to watch over me, and appear bright.

5) Absolutely no kissing.  Not even if it is on the cheek after drinking twenty five Henry Weindard’s or fifty Rainiers.  That’s called a gateway kiss.

6) Unless we win one in a fantasy football league, or if it’s on your collar, NO RINGS.  There’s a beginning, but there will also be an end if any other rings are presented.

7) Separate beds unless it’s a snowstorm and we can only find a motel with a one bed room.  Flip a coin or arm wrestle on which guy gets the cot, if another guy needs to share our room.

8) Fourth of July, Mother’s Day, The World Series and The Super Bowl.  All synonymous and you must celebrate them.  College basketball is optional, depending on how much money you have riding on it.

9) You don’t have to love Rickey Henderson, but you have to respect Him.

10)  Jaws, Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, Cool Hand Luke, Shawshank Redemption, The Big Lebowski, Super Troopers, Meatballs, Paint Your Wagon (acceptable even as a musical, because there is plenty of booze present) will all be available in your library of DVD’s and also allowed on Sundays on TNT, HBO, or Showtime.  Cinemax must be viewed on one’s own.  Seinfeld reruns are required nightly from 10:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.

11) You must be willing to laugh.  Critical.

12) If you want to work out, fine, but I’m not going to the gym with you unless it’s to play racquetball.  I WILL NOT WATCH YOU DO CURLS IN FRONT OF A MIRROR!

13) Ice cream:  We will order TWO cones, and no, you may not have a bite from my spoon…………and by the way, no spooning at all!

14) No foot rubs…….period.

15) Astroturf lawn, unless you want to mow grass.

16) On Christmas, I only require a Mad Magazine and an orange in my stocking, labeled “happily not gay, but married”.

17) No Cats!  Unless they’re really cool cats.

And 18)  You must be at least 18.

Oh, and one member on my list suggested we never listen to the song, “Afternoon Delight” while driving with one another in a lime green Volkswagon Bug.

This list could go on and on and on and on like Star Trek, but I’m done for the morning. You provide the rest.

G bye

 

 

 

You Can Google That! (and the election)

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It’s election time, and I just awakened to a pile of crap……literally.  One of our 77 animals decided to use our carpet as a latrine.  Waking before my wife, I was undecided as to whether I should ignore it, wake her up to help me clean it, or just vomit and clean it myself.  I did the latter, and being knee deep in crap made me ponder our current God Bless America Election.

Election time this year has not given me an election.  Evidently, I may not get an election for at least a week.  I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or just succumb to political boredom.  We have Obama, Romney and their two goons to vote for or against.  I overheard one potential confused voter uttering the line, “I’m not voting for Obama, but I will cast a vote against Romney.”  That’s when you toss in a cool fictional write-in name just for fun such as….oh let’s say, “Shayne Wing”.  This doesn’t sound like a right or left wing, just someone who knows not to send canned goods to the Red Cross during a time of turmoil when they specifically asked for cash donations only.  Romney didn’t get that memo.  He was busy smiling in Ohio, commenting on the “little” storm brewing in the east.  I don’t think he knows much about brewing, much like Obama doesn’t know much about tweeting.  As a Mormon, you shouldn’t brew, and as The President of the United States of America, you shouldn’t tweet……..unless it’s about baseball.

During this election, some people don’t even know who they are voting for, or more importantly, Googling for.  You see, to be “Googled” makes you famous like a potential President.  Evidently, “Google Me” is a common phrase and command for someone desiring YouTube stardom, or as I like to call it, MeTube. (You can google that!)  According to reliable sources, “Google Me” is also on the cutting edge of barroom pick up lines, even if you are the incumbent.   Let’s Google that incumbent and a potential President.  That should be fun, because nothing short of fun is what this election is about.  Much like pickling anything, we can now Google anything.

A friend of mine runs a bar in D.C.  That’s a Discombobulated Community just north of Columbia.  Barack Obama saunters in with his entourage and sits down next to my friend and asks, “Do you know who I am?”

Friend:  Yes. You’re Barack Obama.

B.O.:   But, do you know who I am?

Friend: Of course, (and while shaking hands and ordering him a beer) you are Barack Obama.

B.O.: Google me.

Friend:  What?

B.O.: Google me.

Friend:  Ok………..It says you’re The President of the United States.

B.O.:  I’m the President of the United States!  BAM!  Google that, ya’ll!

Now enters an equally intelligent man named Romney.  The same banter follows, only his entourage is full of women, many whom may or may not be his wife.

M.R.:  I’ll have a  non caffeinated cola, and do you know who I am?

Friend:  Let me guess, if I Google you, I’ll bet you are running against the incumbent, correct?

M.R.:  Google me.

Friend: I already know who you are.

M.R.: Google me.

Friend:  Alright……..it says something about you being a rich mormon whose beliefs include…..(interrupted by M.R.)

M.R.:  Just get to the good part about me running against this liberal over here.

Friend: Ok, let me scroll down a few pages…….yes, you are running against our current President.

M.R.:  Darn right!

Friend: And, that makes you important?

M.R.:  No!  It makes me famous!  You can Google me!

Now, in walks a fellow named Guy Loans.  Great name.  I want all my friends to have that name.  This Guy must be loaded, or sell some sort of insurance.

Guy Loans:  (A well groomed chap entering with wife in hand, both dressed like they had just been skiing in the Alps.) Do you know who I am?

Friend:  (exhausted)  No, I don’t.

G.L.:  I’m Guy Loans.

Friend:  Nice to meet you, Guy Loans.

G.L.:  But, do you know who I am?

Friend:  (wearily) Yeah, you’re Guy Loans, and don’t tell me to….

G.L.:  Google me.

Friend:  Oh, for Christ sakes, if I Google you, will you please take you, your ski bunny wife, those two clowns running for President, and get the hell out of here?

G.L.:  Google me.

Friend:  There’s about a million Guy Loans on here, but one is about an idiot skiing off a fifty foot cliff at the age of fifty.  Is that you?

G.L.:  That’s right!  And you can tell your friends to Google that!  I’m not only drunk, I’m FAMOUS!

Friend:  Ok, terrific.  As long as your wife can ski you home, can you all get the hell out of here?

As the incumbent and possible president exit, the future vice and incumbent vice enter. (I love the word Vice:  one of the definitions being a trivial fault or failing.  That’s perfect.)

Both are dressed in muppet costumes they’ve forgotten to take off since October 31’st.  Ryan as Fozzy the Bear, and Biden as The Swedish Chef.  (If you don’t know those muppets, you can google them and I can guarantee you they are much more impressive than their impostors.)

Fozzy is in very good shape and looks to be very young.  Those are the first items on his Google resume.  That, and he speaks English.

The Swedish Chef doesn’t speak a word of English, unless it’s “chicken”, “pork” or “da fishy”.  Otherwise, he’s singing in tongues we can’t understand.

Perfect.  Vote decided.  I’ll take the guy running with the other guy I can’t understand.  I think that’s  Obama and his chef.   Fozzy just wants his fame as a Stand Up Vice President.

God Bless America.

Personally, I don’t wish to be Googled.  Beyond high school glory days, public records provide way too much information.  Hi, I’m Ben Gannon, and please, don’t google me.

Click here for Muppet Campaign Video

 

October 31st (Halloween Counseling)

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Much of my material comes from those I know and love, or people I don’t know yet despise.  This will be painless.  My brother, who I love, used to give out potatoes on Halloween.  After spending money on countless bashed in windows from the recourse of said potatoes, he has now found some form of redemption regarding the happy day where we can provide cavities for thousands of our tax paying youths.  Steve, my brother, no longer gives out potatoes on Halloween, he gives out advice.

What counselor will be tossed through his current window, and how much will it cost my brother and that young man dressed in a Yota costume for paying for this?  Yota would provide better advice.  “Sacred the Windows they are…..knocks on doors not.  Lay inside, secret apprentice, yes?”

Nine Ghost Stories and The Two Spooky Ears

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At the age of about four, I was convinced our house was haunted.  I believed in ghosts for  two reasons.  One, I could hear them in our house, and two, I could smell them in our house. That’s good enough for me.  Never did I see one.  Strangely, it was always on weekends, and it was always past midnight.   They didn’t scare me because my mother protected me from them; not with guns, knives, spears or grenades, but with her usual casual and peaceful manner of reasoning.  She always just wanted them to go to bed.  Oddly, she never asked them to leave.  This is the most courageous woman I’ve ever encountered, and she does exist.

These ghosts would open doors, close them, taunting me, not with haunting sounds, just irritating ones keeping one of my eyes open.  I didn’t wish to see them with both.  They would commonly have a strange rhythm to their gait, almost resembling a stumbling pattern.  They’d also knock items over and open our refrigerator, spilling a blood like substance on the floor I might slip on in the morning companied with a yellow substance smelling like it may go great with the breadcrumbs strewed along the grout of our counter.  Additionally, there was evidence of a possible potato chip encounter, where no chips were remaining, just some day old clam dip and open Ding Dong wrappers.  How much did this ghost weigh, and how many carbs could a ghost inhale?  Perhaps, in the other world, ghosts are allowed to purge too.  Maybe not.  After further analysis, the only physical evidence determining the presence was not of one, but perhaps nine poltergeists stumbling through our abode.  That’s where it all began to make phony apparition sense.

Years later, after psychiatric evaluation, numerous counseling sessions and developing a brain, I put all the nine pieces together through mathematical, scientific and human as well as phantasm behavioral analysis.

One, as I later found out, I was the youngest of thirteen children.  Two, I was four at the time, making the closest sibling four years older, the next, six years older and the next, eight years older.  Calculating this on a Texas Instrument just purchased by my father made it quite easy for a simpleton like me.  Brother, Tom, would have been eight, (I’m sounding amish) brother Greg ten, sister Maggie, twelve.  How old were the rest of these siblings?  Before there was a google search engine, I could just ask my mother or father.com for the answers to my ghastly questions.  Evidently, the nine other siblings were either in Junior High, HIGH School, college, or just residing in our home on a weekend like basis.  This all made sense.  The whispering, the food, the ketchup, mustard…….everything……especially the smells.  If nothing else I have to offer the world, I have a spooky honker. ( My nose detects items even CSI investigators couldn’t or wouldn’t wish to taste.  Right now, I can smell the raindrop in the park located just a half  mile from the office where I type, and I can tell you which cloud it descended from.  Ghosts?  Not nearly as spooky as my nose).  My mom and I have the same ninth sense of smell.  She whispered words in the middle of the night to my nine ghosts, turning out to be siblings, such as, “I smell liquor” and “Why do you smell like a skunk?, and “Do you know what time it is?”  Their responses (excuses) seemed to be brushed off by my mom like lice from a 1970’s hairdo.  Fortunately, for the ghosts, they could hear something far more frightening and sinister coming directly from our father’s bedroom…….his SNORING!  That guy could wake a ghost up!  He was the Texas Instrument Chainsaw Massacre of snoring.  However, when he’d discontinue the prominent growls, and proceed to just pull the chain, then all ghosts would know he may stop snoring and actually wake up.  That’s exactly when the ghosts hit the fan.  Luckily, they could fly through the fan without having to adjust the sheets on their heads.  All was quiet on the Gannon Front.

Those days are long gone, but fortunately, I have had the terrific fortune to meet all of my nine ghosts.  They can be scary at times, but most of the time, they are quite friendly.

My really scary stories include one of my sister, Dorothy, dressing me up as the Tin Man.  Not too ghoulish, but it does freak people out when you wear it and it’s not on Halloween.

The band “Kiss” Costumes:  I didn’t wear them, but they did scare me on Locust Street when everyone else was dressed as Gene Simmons. That’s a creepy nightmare.

Happy Halloween

(What’s the best and worst costume you adorned on this pagan day? I’d love to read all about them!)

P.S.  If your children show up on our doorstep, we only serve organic Kit Kats, non combustible razor blade free apples, free range chicken and lactose free milk pouches…..straws not included……they are like plastic spears for gosh sakes.

Oh, and by the way, other than coming from a family of thirteen, this story, I think, is mostly fictional.  Sorry if I scared you, mom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Game Seven (Classics Never Die)

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I’ll do my best at some play by play.  The NLCS (National League Correctional Series) wait…..I just got out of there……I mean the National League Champion Series is currently being played.  That’s baseball to those meatheads watching their fantasy knuckle heads get concussed.

Steroids . . . they do a body good.

The San Francisco Giants are displaying their October costumes.  Orange and Black.  They have worn them for years, but it seems appropriate while approaching the Fall Classic.  Hitting coach for the St. Louis Cardinals, Mark McGuire did not receive the “it’s not Halloween” memo as he is clearly posing as someone who is not currently taking steroids.  Ding dong.  “Trick or treat”.

“You look strangely thin, young man.  Who are you supposed to be?”

“Mark McGuire.”

“Oh that’s cute…..let me inject this Milky Way into your butt.  You’ll have biceps, triceps and acne for years.  Just don’t tell your wife.  She’ll be concerned about your shrinking baseballs.”

The opening ceremony was just as painful as expected.  Whoever butchered the National Anthem needs to know that free and brave are separate words…….in some particular order.  I give up.

There is a guy named Scutaro playing for the Giants.  He used to play for the minor league team, The Sun City Muppets.  His abilities have far exceeded those of puppets without legs.

Residential Nazi, Matt Holliday, seems disgruntled.  Let’s go to a commercial break.

Five hour energy drink?  I don’t need one.  I’ll take a scooter O for the road.

Scooter just lined one into right field for his second hit.  This Muppet can really hit.  Now a cartoon character known as Kung Fu Panda (Pablo Sandoval) just came to bat and lined one into left field putting runners on the corners.  Excuse me, second and third.  Another fictional character posing as Buster is at bat.  He looks like he’s twelve years of age, but his mom says he’s almost twenty, and he hits you just like puberty.  You just can’t determine when he’s going to embarrass the pitcher.

The bases are now loaded with Scooter at third, Kung Fu at second and Buster posing as himself at first.  Where is number 8 when you need him?  Number 8 just cleared the bases.  I can’t keep up with this.  Where is soccer when I need him?  This game is too fast. I need a zero zero tie!  Baseball is supposed to be slow and boring.  I’m switching to Monday Night Foolsball.  I need a Hank Williams Jr. Fix.  Who is playing?

I’ll catch up in the seventh inning stretch.

Wait, the football game broke into another fight with helmets and face masks.  Boring.  Men breaking their knuckles on plastic head bowls doesn’t impress me.  This pitcher hitting for the Giants with the bases loaded does impress me……until……we have to wait….he struck out.

My wife just called me so I have to act like I’m putting the sheets in the dryer.  I use fans and “I can’t hear you” noises to distract her.  She thinks I should be writing, doing laundry and watching baseball at the same time.  Who is the crazy person in this family?  It ain’t the dogs and cats.  They are currently folding clothes.  Stupid, but not crazy.

Seven to Zero in favor of the Giants.  If my mother is watching The Waltons right now, I will be forced to not send her a Mother’s Day Card.  She loves The Waltons more than baseball.  That’s certifiable.  They are a fictional family for crying “Goodnight Johnboy” out loud!  What decade is this?  My mother just informed me the Waltons are painting their house!  What color?!!  I don’t care!  Back to the game.

Commercial Break:  Cialis.

Here’s something interesting. Oh dear.  The Giants are warming up another character.  He is in the bullpen, but the only name we’ve heard or read about comes from a Monty Python Movie.   They call him, “Tim”.

As a former betting man, I will bless or irritate the  baseball betting Gods by writing, “it is over”.  Catastrophically more disturbing, since the baseball game looks as though it’s over, I have lowered myself and degraded my principles by changing channels, not to the football game, but the Presidential Debate.  Did I just capitalize that as though they were proper nouns?  I’m going back to the game I love.  Not the political games I hate.

My wife is watching ABC, and I am fighting her over the foreign policy remote.  This is ridiculous.

God Bless America, God Bless Concussions, God Bless Baseball, and well, soccer, I will just pray for your sport to grow arms.  That will be a miracle.

On the Seventh Day, God Created a Blowout, and then He skipped the eighth day due to a rain delay, and on the ninth day, He created Baseball.

Genesis:  10 13 73

Jitterbug Rules

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My mother has had many nicknames over the past eighty some years.  Most have pertained to her eyesight and hearing issues, but others have regarded her technical skills, or hatred there of.  There’s Helen, or HK.  Most people would find this to be a magnificent nickname because of Helen Keller’s remarkable quest and breakthrough to communicate.  Mom only rolled her eyes when we’d refer to her as Helen.  This just after  a waitress asking her if she wanted eggs with her toast, her reply might be, “No, I don’t want legs with my host…..that’s ridiculous.”

Ma Barker, another nickname she despised, was only derived from a history book her seven sons didn’t read.  We were too busy playing baseball and football in the backyard.  When we were instructed to do homework, our idea of reading a chapter was reading the bold letters introducing the chapter.  “Did you do your home work?”

“Yeah, we read about Ma Barker.”

Little did we know upon non further review, Ma Barker was a murderer and common thief.  Our mother, quite the antithesis.  Ma Barker  had four sons who committed most of the crimes she convinced them to commit.   Since we weren’t into details, when we’d refer to her as Ma Barker, she would become uncommonly angry and say, “Do you even know anything about her?”  I think my mom’s seven sons could only assume Ma Barker was the mother of the great Bob Barker from “The Price is Right”.  Wrong.  We should have guessed that was the wrong answer when the next chapter wasn’t titled, “Son of Ma Barker”.  It was titled, “Death and Imprisonment”.

Mom received other lesser known titles such as Amelia Bedilia, Mither, Mommy Fearest or Dearest, but she is entitled to two further nicknames providing her essential identity and capturing the love which has never emptied her tank……especially when her children were running on empty.  The first being Jitterbug, and the last being Mom.

Even your mother can use the Jitterbug cell phone.

Communicating with our mother via anything was a disaster.  Many of my sisters have sought counseling over not being capable of saying the words, “I love you”, because she, literally, or perhaps deliberately, can’t hear them over a cell phone.  My mom is pretty sharp so literal and deliberate take on different connotations regarding her prowess.  Many of my siblings gave up.  When “I love you so much”, comes out like, “I’ll shove you so much,” it becomes verbally taxing.  Then along came Jitterbug.  The answer to all our communication prayers.  Lord knows we wouldn’t take the time to write this glorious woman a letter.  That’s Blasphemy in today’s tech world!

Like an 8″ by 12″ picture frame, my mom can hang this Jitterbug cell phone on the wall and clearly see each number while pressing the keys with the palm of her hand.  It’s cutting edge technology.  And, much like my mother, it’s cool.

When I call my mother on the Jitterbug, I use her most mysterious nickname……Mom.  She’s earned that one.

 

 

A Pony’s Tale (I’ll have another t-one for the road)

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Most of my writing consists of stories regarding my life or others’ lives.  They are observations and sometimes manifestations of everyday occurrences.  My life is a bit mundane, but when you are truly fascinated with a man you believe shouldn’t exist, you are compelled to write about him.  I’m a writer.  Therefore, I love writing about a man I know quite well.

Writing about him a year ago, you may remember him as T-One.  Not pronouncing his S’s properly, when in school, upon asked about his name, he was not “Stephen”  He was T-One.   T-One is his alias just prior to entering his phone booth, which also maintains an alias……His Tavern.  This is where T-one becomes Steve…….or Tooperman.

My life has been blessed by this man who, when entering a room, can light up the atmosphere like a nineteen seventy joint.  His smile is genuine, his laughter is sincerely infectious, and his love for those surrounding him is real.  So is HE.  He’ll make an effort to stop at any crosswalk for any form of life.  However, when someone chooses to disrespect him, he runs into a tavern, changes his clothes, turns a shade of green, and places those who have cross walked him into another shade of green.

This is folklore for the boring life I lead.  Steve is a man amongst gentlemen.  He’s one of the finest gentlemen I’ve crossed.  But, I wish those who read this take heed, for the most kindest, forthright, and generous of human beings can change his kindness channel to the rage channel with the flick of his wrist.

Here’s the lack of punchline.  A man wearing a pony tail (that’s funny right there)  walks into a bar and proceeds to drink a beer and talk at the same time.  He gurgles and gobbles while the owner of the bar, who maintains his true identity known as “Steve” watches and waits for him to shut up.  It never happens.  Therefore, Steve tells him to shut up and drink his beer.  The patron then proceeds to approach another Tooper Hero known as Turner.  Pony Tail patron tells Turner he is going to beat Steve up.  Turner turns to him and says, “you may want to rethink that, buddy.”  Pony Tail then decides, with no infinite wisdom to approach, accost, and alleviate my brother, Steve, from his simple world.  That’s when Steve enters the barroom bathroom, takes off his hat and becomes Tooperman.  Tooperman then, over the course of maybe five seconds, escorts this patron out by the use of his Pony Tail.  Tooperman always finds a weakness in anyone, just so he can enjoy the weekend.  The Pony’s tail was this guy’s Achilles heal.

As a man who doesn’t approve of violence (not quite a pacifist), Tooperman decided to use this pony tail as his weapon of mass confusion.  He whipped him around the bar like a carnival pinwheel while, without hurting him, stated, “You don’t come into someone’s bar and try to get in a fight with a pony tail!”  The man was escorted by Tooperman out with not a person or Tooper Hero getting hurt.

The A moral to the story is………and lack of punchline, don’t enter a bar with a pony tail anticipating a fight when it’s not the owner’s first rodeo.  You will lose.

Enough about anger and good management, let’s watch some baseball.  Now that’s FUN!

 

 

 

 

E (Extra) True Hollywood Story

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Now years ago, I worked for the county, which I believed was the only job in the world where you did indeed receive pay for napping on the job.  For years, I’ve searched the world and elsewhere to find its equal.  Elusive as it was, much like finding socks to match my dirty white t-shirt, I found it.  It is in Hollywood.  And, this is your Extra True Hollywood Story.

I know two professional actors.  Both are my dear friends.  One, an accomplished actor, working in over a dozen movies, appearing in countless T.V. episodes and having a lead role in a Soap Opera for six years as well as directing, writing and starring in an award winning independent film.  He shall remain anonymous.  His father shall not.  Marshall, some eighty years of age, give or take a few decades depending on his attitude, is also an accomplished thespian and former broadcaster, having worked the commercial junction, as well as many plays and a pivotal role in his son’s independent film.  Both have credentials, but you decide which one has mastered the art of making money the easy way.

Marshall’s son belongs to S.A.G..  (Screen Actor’s Guild).  This is a common union for actors who must pay their dues while scraping for money in between jobs and when that acting job arrives, they must memorize lines I can’t even read.  It is definitely work mixed with some formidable humility.  Marshall belongs to another cult referred to as E.S.A.G. (Extra Sophisticated Actors’ Gag)…..No fees, paid naps and no contracts.  Brilliant.  I’d apply but no one in their right mind would accept a person less than eighty years of ageless beauty……or were diagnosed with narcolepsy.  I may be an actor at home, but I can’t play one on T.V..  My friend, Marshall, now referred to as “Method Man Mark”, has the ability to nap whenever he chooses.  This is legitimate acting.

Auditioning as a comatose patient on “Grey’s Anatomy”, Mark nailed it.  Falling asleep during the audition landed him an undisclosed amount of money fooling those in Hollywood.  Bravo.

But, could he bring his craft to the set on this gurney, while one hundred or so people were expecting him to be in a coma?  Yes.  In fact, this is THEE God’s honest true story.  He literally, for thirty minutes, fell asleep in the gurney as the best extra ever to nap on a prime time show.  Being in such a deep sleep, the directors were wondering if he was flat lining, but the only prop available was an old Atari monitor.  Shaking him, they urged him to get out of character, and as usual, he awakened with an eighty year old cantankerous attitude solidifying an additional spot on the show.

And then, that’s when his creative art of napping on cue came to a definitive halt.  He began negotiating with Hollywood executives as to when and where he should fall asleep. They threw out times such as “noon”, but Marshall refused because that was cottage cheese and jello time.  They mentioned five o’clock P.M. and he tore up the studio, and also  threatened them to whip them with the belt he left behind at the airport during a routine security check earlier at L.A.Xtra.  It was all falling to pieces of nap rage.

His last moment of sanity was to make a legitimate deal keeping all extras and executives happy.  Under no circumstances, should he be held under contract by MGM to be forced hostage in a gurney while there was an Early Bird Special at Denny’s featuring “Moons Over My Hammy.”

OK, I added some salt and pepper to the story.  I couldn’t help it.  Proudly, I can say with complete honesty and with Marshall’s consent, he did fall asleep during the filming.  The best cash he ever made.  There’s nothing like method napping.

Blazing Saddles – Napping on the Job

 

Celebration or Sell A Break Something?

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(If it ain’t breakin it, don’t go tryin to fixin it)  Did I quote that cliche properly?  Did y’all hear me?

I’m celebrating today for three reasons.  One:  I have happily, officially and strangely conquered two years of marriage. That’s a personal record.  Thank you very much.  Two:  My anniversary gift to my wife was much like Christmas Eve.  If you are fortunate enough, you are allowed to open one gift prior to the next day when Jesus condemns you to Hell for only going to church once a year.  On our anniversary evening, I gave her the gift of patience.  (luckily….years ago, I gave up gambling……that may have something to do with it)

After watching a full day of college football, I didn’t throw one remote uncontrolled hat, wiffleball bat, cat, or even a couch off our deck.  I did consider tossing our house guest off said deck while watching The University of Washington Huskies lose yesterday.  But, I looked at my wonderful wife, and she provided a look which only can be described as this……………………………………did you get that look?  That’s the only way I can describe it.  The Hulk, Catwoman, or even the dynamic duo of Elton John and the band formerly known as Wham can’t match her eyeballs of terror.

Three:  I’m celebrating my second year of complete sobriety…………oops, I mean honesty.  I drank myself silly yesterday.  I am sending this out to cyberspace before my wife can read it.

(I hope the people, especially the in-laws, Earl and Gail, can discern my sarcastic tone)

Happy Anniversary to all including my current wife.

She’s gonna kill me.

The Truth and The Washington State Cougars (college football amateur hour)

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The Washington State Cougars:  Are you sure you still belong in Division 1 Football?

This blog is going be just as random and amateurish as the game I witnessed last night.  I offer my sincere apologies for thinking my alma mater would show up.   Actually, they did arrive exactly the way I never wished to imagine…..wearing colors representing losers. I’m supposed to be a semi-educated man.  Where is my brain when I need it the most, and why do I have any expectations for this program?

As the great Nancy Kerrigan stated, “why why why?”, I have to admit those words came to mind as I watched opening college football amateur hour last night.  WSU.  Need I write more?

I should have titled this “Set Low Expectations”  That way no one gets hurt.  “Sir, put the remote control and your bat down and step away from the T.V.”.

Last night, my wife and I were driving back to Seattle feeling somewhat hopeful.  We wished to make it back home from a business trip to watch the first, and for me last, game of our alma mater’s college football season.  Sometimes I forget, this is a recipe for a crimson and gray debacle.  We weren’t necessarily convinced that Washington State would win the upcoming game, but with a new coach and a new year, we were hopeful that they wouldn’t embarrass themselves.  Again……these are indeed low expectations.  Losing 30 to 6, against a solid team known as BYU,  even growing up a Catholic, I’m considering converting to a team which wins.  BLASPHEMY!

I’ll make this brief.  Graduating with a degree from Washington State University provides a sense of personal fulfillment.  Knowing the Cougar’s football team will remain terrifically and embarrassingly dreadful FOREVER gives me a sense of relief.  I only threw one wiffleball bat during the course of last night’s game.  Then, I reminded myself, or perhaps it was my wife reminding me of my immature behavior resembling the Cougar football team.  I officially waved the white flag at halftime, because I remembered when I cared.  Giving up is somewhat of a virtue.

Much like throwing a colossal F bomb on a golf course after you lose all your balls, it makes you feel a little better.  Then, you move on and accept you’re just not good enough to play the game.  I don’t golf anymore and my career of being phony is over.  I wish the WSU cougars could accept that fact.  My wife (also maintaining a degree from Washington State University) isn’t over it quite yet, but I have been for years accepting the truth regarding a load of boys in Pullman, Washington wishing to compete in football.  Tossing bats, cats and remotes during a college game only causes marital friction, and that’s a fact son.

Here’s the exact fact.  If you wish to root for any team in the great state of Washington, make certain you have an even greater pain tolerance for losing.   I don’t anymore, and that’s why I write softly and carry a wiffleball bat instead of the Louisville Slugger required to bash in that television screen while wasting a night thinking, just for one tenth of a second, my alma mater may succeed.

This was written with a bit of writer’s Incredible Hulk anger, so forgive me if it sounded as such, but writing is far more therapeutic than injuring a television when my skin turns green.

A little side note:  Our house guest, ironing his University of Washington Husky shirt last night, thanked me for not tackling him during the course of this epic disaster of a football nightmare in our living (and Coug dying) room.

F the Cougs.  End of Story.