Quotes and Blowing Smoke

Posted on by
8

Literature carries a dynamic following.  I love reading, but I just can’t handle people quoting established authors these days.  It doesn’t make me feel inferior; it’s just simply not inspiring to me and a tad annoying.  Shakespeare is too confusing, Chaucer once made me throw up, and Emily Dickenson died in an attic before being recognized by many as one of the world’s most prolific and uplifting poets.  She once wrote, “My life is a loaded gun.”  That really motivated me to show up to poetry class the next day when I didn’t have a car, there was a Washington State University, “Thank God there’s a Snowstorm” day, and I didn’t own a gun.  My professor, who required us students to write a ten page essay analyzing a three line poem may have had several caps popped in her behind if God didn’t create that storm.  God was a bit worried about her English teaching welfare.  She canceled class that day.

Quotes are actually great if they do inspire you to quit something.  Mark Twain was a pretty sharp guy when he said something like, “Golf is a terrific way to ruin a nice walk.”  That’s probably a misquote, but it saved me a ton of money, and being forced to purchase collared shirts I don’t feel should be required for walking on grass and utilizing incessant profanity.  I’m so glad my beloved mother never went golfing with me.  She would have been mortified to hear my F bombs explode and echo throughout the county.

Seriously, I do enjoy quotes from the Holy Bible.  They have honestly inspired me to try to live a better and more productive life.  It’s been awhile since I’ve attended Mass, but I know there were some great lines in that Book.  Other than the burning in Hell parts, Sunday Mass always made my Sunday waffles taste that much better.

I have a few quotes of my own, perhaps influenced by 15 years of teaching 11, 12 and 13 year youngs.  I hope they don’t offend you, or maybe I do, because it’s reality.

(These are in no order of importance and some of these are from pedestrians I have conversed with in bars)

“There is such a thing as a stupid question.”  I’ve asked a thousand of them and been on the receiving end of a thousand of them.

“In an interview, never bring your flask.”

“When teaching a class, play as many favorites as you deem necessary….that way, the unfavorites may eventually learn that the ones showing up on time, turning in their assignments and showing respect for peers and authority figures eventually pays off in life.”

“Never spray Formula 409 on your husband’s BLT.  He will divorce you.”

“Count all your chickens before they’re hatched.  It may save you a lot of money and a 13th child.”

“Don’t ever begin a paper with, Hello, my name is Russ, and I hope I get an A on this paper.”  This will result in your teacher not reading the remainder of your paper and giving you an F.

“Don’t ever conclude a paper with, I hoped you liked my paper, please give me a good grade”……because your teacher won’t make it to the end of your paper.  He’s at a bar talking to others about the frustrations of teaching.

“Do be creative.  If a teacher assigns an assignment pertaining to the solar system, and you have to write about a specific planet and how you could convince others to vacation on that planet, write something as follows……..What happens in Uranus, stays in Uranus.  That’s an automatic A+.”  This actually happened to one of my dear friends.

“Praying internally is a magnificent ritual, especially if it’s for others or a passing grade.  Praying out loud sometimes makes people think you are crazy and potentially results with you losing friends, family members and football fans.”

“A wise man once said, offend as many as you can.  That way you don’t have to call or text too many people.”  (I think I just offended  a few friends and members of my family with the praying quote.  That will save me a few birthday greetings)

“Your mother is usually right, and your father usually smokes………………crack.”

“A Christmas Tree is a beautiful thing to waste money on…….much like the Super Bowl.  A brain is overrated, much like Christmas Trees and Super Bowls.”

“Pray in the Masses and for the masses; we all need it.  Amen.”

I almost forgot: “When drinking, always call the one you love.  They really appreciate that at 2 in the morning.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gamblogging and Guilt

Posted on by
5

(This may only make sense to people dumb enough to gamble)

Guilty of many items, I’ll start with a few.  I am guilty of stealing whisky from a brother.  I am guilty of stealing lines and being influenced by wonderful movies such as Paint Your Wagon, The Cowboys, and Jaws.  I’ve counted the ways to cheat at cards.  I’ve been guilty of surviving Saturday drunkenness and Sunday sloth.  Forgive me.

Those are my confessions for this morning, but as I read the Bible Dictionary of Sinning, I     see that gambling is indeed on the list of mistakes leading us into a place so fondly known as Hell.  Hell is sitting at a Blackjack table waiting for the devil to give you a twenty, only to witness Satan deliver himself five small cards adding up to twenty one.  Lucifer also has four younger brothers sitting at the table taking all the face cards, thus keeping your chances of winning at a minimum.  It’s a lose lose deal, much like betting on the Super Bowl.

The Patriots are favored over the New York Giants by a few points and a kicker this year. That’s precisely why I won’t bet on either team.  It’s that half point, known as “the hook”, or a half player, known as the “kicker” always screwing up your gamble.  This is one of many reasons I no longer gamble.  The “hook” is how Vegas always steals your dough.  If one million drunks bet on the Giants, and one million vagrants bet on the Patriots, Vegas collects ten percent either way.  A person named Vegas wins, and an earthling eventually loses.

Gambling is very similar to writing.  If only fifty percent of the reading population enjoys someone’s writing style, the writer still wins, because the writer collects the juice, even after being demoralized for ten seconds receiving horrible reviews.  Let’s look at this from a baseball stance.  If you are successful five out of ten times, you are not only in the Hall of Fame, you will be Hall of Famous for ever, even if you strike out those other five at bats.

The immoral to this ridiculous banter is as follows:  Be the Bookie, or the Writer…..not the Gambler or the Editor.

If you do gamble, bet on yourself, not a team or a dealer you have no control over.  Unless, of course, you are betting a friend or brother a steak dinner over a football game. In that case, you all win.

 

 

Snowpocolypse Now

Posted on by
9

Living in Seattle, driving can become a little tricky, and one might say at times, maddening enough to send any calm and cool pacifist into a rage of gun wielding fury.  This is on any normal day, depending on when and where you are commuting and eventually committing a crime.  Toss in a snowflake or two, sprinkle in a few hundred thousand people never having driven in snow, perhaps from other countries, and it results in bedlam.  Or, if you will, as some weather analysts are describing it, (cue the music on any news station in Seattle)…..bum bum bum, “Snowmageddon”.

Refusing to play the old card of gently placing weathermen, or meteorologists under a bus, or a zamboni, I will do otherwise, because I find their job to be quite compelling and challenging, or most of the time, just stupid.  Mother Nature has a sense of humor for a reason.  She gets tired of people predicting the weather when, on an off night, maybe coming off a hangover, or perhaps involved in a marital dispute with Father Barstool, she just doesn’t have the time or patience to grant snow days for poor uneducated children and lazy teachers who look forward to those days more than Christmas.  (I was once one of those teachers)

I will, however, toss a few, “on site reporters” under my zamboni.  They are eerily similar to golf analysts using adjectives not necessarily fitting the occasion.  When someone makes an outstanding putt, it is not “courageous”.  When it is 32 degrees outside, the conditions aren’t “brutal”, especially when my wife, two dogs and I are wearing sweatshirts and ball caps tossing snowballs at our snow dogs in the back yard amidst this “brutal” day.  The word “cold” and the phrase, “My ears are a bit numb” seem more appropriate.  Additionally, when these reporters were using the word “brutal”, if they used that term around someone visiting from Great Falls, Montana where it is 20 below,  they might find themselves getting a shovel bounced off their exaggerating onions.  Twenty below!  Now, that’s brutal.  A hole in one!  Still not courageous, but quite amazing.  Those are my analogies for the day, but I must leave you with my last bit of weather rage.

On site reporters get tingly, (I don’t wish to use inappropriate language) when educating us simpletons regarding this bizarre white substance floating to the earth.

On Site Reporter:  “If I can just get you to pan the camera down here by my feet, this wet, but clearly visible flake of nature is referred to as snow.  It happens when Mother Nature has diarrhea, spends too much time in the bathroom, and doesn’t have time to turn up the cloud thermostat.  It also stays around longer than rain.  Rain is just Father Barstool pissing on everyone in Seattle who drives a BMW.  If it continues to snow, re-write your wills and pray that there is a Heaven.  Back to you, Mark.”

You learn about snow when you are about two years old, and most toddlers are not watching the news.  Rather, they are watching more important, and relevant shows like “Sponge Bob, I think I Crapped My Square Pants”.   Or, hopefully, they are out sledding with their parents, and the father is teaching him or her how to place a rock in a snowball, just in case they require some heavy artillery when facing the neighborhood enemies in a friendly snowball fight.

Oh yes, and by the way, you idiots, if you don’t know that it’s a little more safe to slow down in these conditions, you deserve to be in a ditch, as long as nobody gets hurt but you.

(This snow plow blog was inspired by my public relations manager, Vic Parcher, who is currently marketing a line of t-shirts well known in my office and certain bars as “Thrown Under the Bus Club………Are You a Member?”.  I, Ben Gannon, am the acting C.E.O.  If you’d like to purchase one, as of yet, you can’t.  We’re working on that, but if you’d like to observe one, for only five dollars and five minutes of viewing, you can witness one of these shirts encased in 3 inches of bulletproof glass at our home.  People in wheelchairs get in for 4 dollars and 50 cents, but can only stay for 4 minutes and 50 seconds.)

 

 

 

 

Brady Who?

Posted on by
11

Who is this Tom Brady Character, and why was God hugging him after last night’s game against the Broncos?  The only two things I know about this Brady guy is that girls think he is super good looking, and he admits to being a non Virgin.

Tebow finally got laid last night.

THEE END………..Thank God

Theology of Sports

Posted on by
7

Alright, I promised myself I wouldn’t write about this subject because it is becoming as boring and intriguing as Charlie Sheen.  Charlie Sheen isn’t winning.  Tim Tebow is.  Who is this God he’s praying to and where can I rotary dial his number?  Other than finding me a wonderful bride, He hasn’t answered a Hell of a lot of my phone calls.  I should learn how to text Him.

You know who is losing?  Me.  I’ve lost more money than I have ever made betting against that guy.  Crud.  Now, I find myself rooting for him, somehow believing in a different God or Jesus I still haven’t met yet.  I don’t even know what his denomination is, but it seems to be working.  Thinking it may be Seventh Day Adventist, I gave up pork one day.  That didn’t work.  I prayed for my wife and I to not have an argument on that day.  We did, and it was about chewing gum with your mouth open.  I gave up on that religion.  I then moved on to the Mormon belief seeking some form of salvation.  So, it seemed appropriate to give up drinking for that day.  Didn’t work.  My wife and I had another argument about UPS Vs. Fed Ex.  These were important discussions.

In my youth, I learned about this crazy religion  known as Catholicism.  This required you to attend church on Sundays.  It also allowed you to drink, fight, swear, and then feel sorry about what you did last week, thus making everything A OK.   It seemed the perfect match for me.

However, believing in this religion, I also questioned it.  I didn’t enjoy singing, so I would ask why I was forced to sing the Lord’s Prayer during the service, rather than reciting it with conviction.  Not receiving a valid answer, I just annoyed fellow parishioners with my God Awful voice.

As a boy loving football, I prayed for three items on Sunday.  And, I’m being serious.  I prayed for those less fortunate, I prayed for my family, and I prayed so desperately for the Priest to keep the sermon short so I could make it home to watch the Seahawks, or the Bears at 10 o’clock that morning, because I HAD to watch every second of those games while my dad was making waffles.  The Seahawks and the Bears made me question my faith.  The waffles were so good, it made me think, “Maybe there is a God”.

Continuing my faith in the Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit, I placed myself in an awkward situation during a baseball game.  I was facing a left handed pitcher in college who threw upwards of nine thousand miles per hour according to my plastic helmet and slow bat speed.  Fearing for my health, and not wishing to embarrass myself in front of girls who dig ballplayers, I stepped out of the batter’s box, and gave myself the sign of the cross.  The umpire said and did something very memorable that day.  He stopped the game and asked me to step out of the batter’s box.  This was unusual, but, since I knew this man, I sort of sensed what was going to come out of his mouth, other than “Strike Three!”  He said, “Did you just make the sign of the cross in the middle of a game”.  I said, “yeah”.  He replied, “God ain’t whatchin this game…..He’s got better things to do”.  I proceeded to strike out, but went on to have a terrific season praying for others, and my head instead of a base hit.

Whatever Tim Tebow is doing seems to be working, and I wish him the best, unless I am betting against him……..and evidently someone from above who is taking a break from disease and catastrophe to watch that remarkable man win games on Sunday, well, I wish him or her the best as well.  Hell, He or She can watch the game with me, as long as they like chicken wings.  I’ll even buy.  It will be my moment of tithing.

Roll Tithing,

Ben

Who’s Your Favorite Dictator? (Marshall Chronicles)

Posted on by
18

I once asked a very dear and older friend of mine who his favorite dictator was.  He laughed hysterically and couldn’t answer, because he actually didn’t have a favorite.  That would have been a terrific answer and question on Jeopardy. My friend, Mark, would have been stumped and Alex Trebec would have intimidated him by providing the correct answer or question with supreme confidence.

(I don’t know the spelling of names and I don’t have time to look up celebrities making more money than me)  Trebek:  You don’t know who your favorite dictator is???  The answer is “Who is Mussolini?”

My friend:  “F off, Mr. Trebek.”

I was a child then in my mid twenties and didn’t recognize what the term “Dictator” represented.  Thinking of people such as Ronald Reagan, George Steinbrenner, Donald Trump, or perhaps one of the Kardashions, I didn’t feel it was such a ridiculous question.  Incredulously, I didn’t understand why he wished to watch the Seattle Mariners lose rather than satisfy me with an answer.  Therefore, upon pestering him for nearly an hour, seeking, in fact begging for a reasonable response while the Mariners were losing their 19th straight game, I made it easier for him.  This was the only way to shut me up and wake him up. I made it multiple choice.  Reagan, Steinbrenner and Trump were all on the list.  He wasn’t aware of this Kardashion Dictator person, so I immediately helped him with the process of elimination.  My friend, Mark, asked me if he did provide an answer if I would please shut up and leave his domain.  That’s when further negotiations proceeded.  I replied, “I’ll shut up if you give me a sufficient answer, but I won’t leave because I don’t have cable and I want to watch the Mariners lose as much as you.”  Finally, he complied but raised the ante.  Requesting to choose someone not on my list, I thought, ok, I’ve given this friend of mine enough trouble.

His definitive response:  Captain Kirk.   I would have never thought of that guy.  But, I was most definitely satisfied, so I honored his request…………for about five minutes before asking him my next profound question:  “Who was your favorite character on Gilligan’s Island?”  That’s when I was forced to leave.

I still love that guy.

The Lighter Side of a Dad (Christmas Cheer)

Posted on by
16

Our father was a humble man.  He was an executive who would adorn a forty seven year old smoke stained jacket just after removing his powder blue suit.  Equally as humble, our mother would become embarrassed by the cigarette stains and burns on that dreadful jacket.  Our father did these things deliberately.   He wished to look like a bit of a bum after wearing a suit and tie ten hours a day, just to get a bit of a rise out of his children or wife.  It was his way of making himself laugh.  Our mother didn’t always love it.  Some of my siblings didn’t appreciate it.  At our ballgames, a few of my brothers wouldn’t acknowledge him as our father.  Here’s a brief example:  Teammate to one of my brothers: “Who is that bum in the stands?”  One of my embarrassed brothers:  “I have no idea.”

My father’s work ethic was impeccable, so his stress level could boil over sometimes.  Additionally, being the father of thirteen children wasn’t always easy.   Our mother was his saving grace, but his keen sense of humor, sometimes just silly, relaxed him a bit.  His shenanigans made people chuckle, guffaw, or simply shake their heads.  His seven sons’  “Gannigans” sometimes landed them in jail. We weren’t as crafty as him. (Don’t take joyrides on tractors which aren’t yours, young men.)

Onward to the Holiday season:  This always made my father, a very stern man, a little goofy and child like.  Our Father, Rodney, grew tired of purchasing Christmas trees.  He also grew tired of hanging lights on our fairly large home.  Therefore, he would find enjoyment further embarrassing his children and wife by ripping a branch off a backyard tree and saying, “This is what we’re having for Christmas this year.”  It stood proudly in front of our picture window for all the neighbors to see.  This was years before the sacred movie “A Christmas Story” graced our television sets.  Additionally annoyed by our next door neighbor’s festive stadium lights, Mr. Gannon developed a talent for unplugging those neighbor’s lights.  This was a bit of an annoyance for our next door neighbors.  Smoking a cigarette and peacefully saying the rosary, he would stroll into the neighbor’s yard and pull the plug.  That’s when the fun began for dad.  Finally, the sun went down in Spokane.   Fortunately, our neighbor had a good sense of humor.  After spending an hour checking every bulb on his house, he finally problem solved something quite simple.  Shaking his head, and rolling his eyes, knowing our father was the man who committed this terrible crime, he was capable of finding an outlet.  Then, he would drop by our house to share a beer with our father.

Dad was a pioneer of Christmas cheer, especially while attending mass on Christmas day.  We all attended church every Saturday night or Sunday morning.  We also attended,….let me rephrase that, stood  in church on Christmas and Easter.  Oddly, and statistically speaking, ( I can create a graph for this) people enjoyed dressing up and arriving in droves celebrating JC’s Birthday.  Dad had no problem with this.  Tom, Greg, Maggie, and other siblings did have an issue.  We didn’t understand, while faithfully attending mass, even when we were on vacation, being forced to stand at attention in the back, allowing ladies and gentlemen with white Q tips placed upon their heads to relax in a pew and pay no attention to the meaning of Christmas.

Babies crying and the elderly snoring during this sacred day really didn’t bother our dad.  With pious faces, dressed to the tenth, people( not his children) holding conversations during the service were what irritated our father. Very kindly, and only verbally, he would swing like a wild man.  He created a max exodus of college students thinking they could arrive at a church one day a year and not pony up any respect, or any money.  They didn’t recognize the word, “Tithing” or “Respect”.  Having very little money in college, I at least found a “buy one get one free Whopper”certificate from Burger King, and placed in the church basket of tithing goodies.  Forgive me father for I had no money.

I wish everyone a Happy Holiday Season.  And go to church, even if you have to allow an old bag to take your seat.  As you attend the Christmas service, you might heed my fathers advice: pray, don’t disrespect any religion, and shut the hell up for just one hour a week.

A Brand New Mess

Posted on by
29

Here’s a simple blog for all those who enjoy the smell of Meth.  I don’t know, nor wish to know the correct spelling of the drug known as Methosuperwasted.  One of our cats just pissed in my lab of solitude, and it smells just like a drug people have described.  I am unable to describe it further because paper towels aren’t enough to clean up this meth.

Fear and Stealing in Seattle

Posted on by
15

I am guilty of many crimes.  They are all just mildly and wildly stupid.  Today, I committed a crime.  I stole a dog and a ladder.  Stealing is really something I don’t do well.  In fact, I’m completely against it, but when our two dogs are wagging and begging to see a friendly neighborhood dog, I just can’t help myself from opening and entering through the neighbor’s back gate.  Opening and entering sounds far more decent than breaking and entering.  I didn’t break anything….other than the law.

Bo,  our neighborhood friendly dog, also affectionately known as Bobafet, Bobafettish, Bobo Brayton, or Botox  was allowed, by me, to exit his backyard.  He is safely hidden in our basement.  Actually, he is currently playing in our backyard with our friendly dogs.  Bo is a wonderful guy.  Our dogs express that fact to me daily.

Crime number two:  “Stealing a Ladder”. The owners of Bo, the dog, received a gift from me earlier this summer.  It is an extremely tall ladder.  I provided that gift because, being ridiculously afraid of heights and gutters, getting rid of that ladder and hiring someone to clean gutters seemed like the right thing to do.  My wife wasn’t necessarily pleased with my decision.  Before our wedded bliss, she purchased this firefighter like ladder for a mere sum of money I don’t wish to disclose.  It’s huge.  I don’t mind throwing or giving away crap that’s mine, but I probably shouldn’t give things to people which I didn’t purchase.  So, the right thing to do is steal it from the person you provided it to, right??  Reluctant to steal anything, I was forced purchase a 13 foot tree to commit the crime.  Unless I became “Spiderman”, there was no way to place the star on our Christmas Tree. Stealing that ladder was the only option.

If my children, friends, neighbors, dogs, cats or wife are starving, I will steal a loaf of bread.  That’s just the way I roll.

Sorry, John.  Bo is heading back home, but will you PLEASE steal our ladder back.

Monday Night Football and Hank Williams Jr.

Posted on by
25

For those of you who live your lives for Monday Night Football, this should be your singing anthem for this evening’s mess between the Seattle Seahawks and the St. Louis Rams.

If Hank Williams Jr. hadn’t been removed from singing the Monday Night jingle, it may have begun like this.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME SHITBALL?!!!!……  A Monday night snoozer!  This is Fired Randall Hank….. How do I get myself started (again)?

Ok, to educate those who don’t care about football or Hank Williams Jr., I will do my best to inform you that, although a wonderful entertainer, he is a notorious ass-face.  I’m not poking fun at his face, it’s just one of my terms for referring to one as an asshole.  He used to sing the Monday Night Football Party Anthem each Monday before, in another drunken page of his life, deciding to talk about politics on National T.V., as well as flirt with the female interviewing him.  Let this be noted.  I’m not throwing Hank under the Cross Country Bus, and I refuse to spit Beachnut in that dude’s eye.  I listened to and loved his music for years. However, no one in America, other than some southern fools, really care about his political stance. Hank, stick to music.  You’re good at it.  Stick to drinking.  You’re exceptional at it.  Politics, stay away unless you wish to be parodied on Saturday Night Live.

I know this is old news to many regarding the firing of Hank Williams Junior High. But, I thought since the Seattle Seahawks are playing the other High School team known as the St. Louis Rams tonight, perhaps ESPN, or whomever is broadcasting the show should bring back another less than exciting celebrity.  For Pacific Northwest Fans, it will again be a SEA of mediocrity.

Sadly, and embarrassingly, my brother, Tom, our friend, Mike, and his then spectacular wife attended a Hank Williams concert at a venue known as Unplayfair.  It was a horse race track in our hometown of Spokane, Washington.  After purchasing concert tickets and multiple Hank Jr. musical tapes for several years (I didn’t know what a CD was at that time), we were all excited to witness one of the country western singing greats.

No strangers to booze, we all partook in some adult beverages before the concert. So did Hank.  We were told by music authorities he may be a little tardy for the concert.  There was no opening act, and we ran out of money for libations.  Therefore, we were a bit agitated.  Two hours later, with bellies full of beer and empty wallets, Hank arrived.  He didn’t have a shirt on, and the hair on his chest did not outnumber the shots he had taken before arriving.  He played songs we either had not heard of, or were simply stolen from whatever band wrote “Sweet Home Alabama”.  I don’t remember much, other than a fight breaking out amongst fans who were clearly drunk and disoriented, and a guitar solo lasting  longer than the lifespan of a redneck wood tree.  I would have preferred watching that tree grow.

Enjoy the game tonight, or get to cooking dinner and talking to someone special.  Or, burn a Hank Jr. CD.  You can interpret that anyway you wish.